ShadowDiving
by dancingonmytoes13
Summary: I would die for her. But I have to live for her, to protect her. Angel will never feel the blows that color my life. My name is Fang. And this is my story.  Rated T for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello my readers!**

**I had planned to not start this, but I became inspired.**

**I warn you now, I am not the most frequent updater. I have a busy schedule threatening me this year, and sometimes, I lose my inspiration. But I have the determination to finish my stories, and I promise to do just that.**

**But while I have time to update, I will try to write as much as possible.**

**This story faces a difficult but real subject. Because I write about it does not mean I, in any way, support or approve of it. Just saying that right now.**

**Another note I will make is at the end of every chapter I usually have a music dedication. They do not necessarily pertain to the story; they just help me write it. However, in this story, the songs might be more related. But if a song appears about something completely unrelated, don't think too much about it. I just recommend the song.**

**This story includes Iggy, Gazzy, and Max as well.**

**So, without further adieu, I present **_**ShadowDiving**_**.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, own the characters of Maximum Ride or any other references made. All rights belong to James Patterson and all other respected owners.**

* * *

_Fang's POV_

Yo.

I know you don't know me, and I know you probably don't have any idea why I'm talking to you now, but please.

Listen.

I want… no, I need to tell you about my life.

At this point, most of you have become disinterested. I know you're thinking that I'm going to complain about homework, girls, and parents that just won't let me do what I want to do. You're imagining the green yard, picket fence, and picturesque house.

You're imagining the perfect mom, smiling with a plate of cookies and an understanding demeanor.

You're imagining the perfect dad, stern but with concern in the right place.

You're imagining the annoying but lovable 1.5 siblings.

I'm here to tell you that doesn't exist. For anyone.

Especially me.

My world exists on the outskirts of desolation. Instead of green lawns and picket fences, I have grey concrete and pick pocketing. Homework is the least of my worries, if it even gets registered at all on the list. I'm not restricted from doing anything – I have to do _everything_.

My home is a tap away from falling down. It's dirty and smells like the powders my mom is always getting high off of.

There is no dad in the picture anymore. Mom killed that a long time ago. The bloodstains remain as evidence, partially obscured by new bloodstains. Mine.

I only have one girl to care about. Angel, my 7 year old sister.

She is my top priority. I live to protect her. I take the battering to make sure she can live a happy life, oblivious to what really happens when Mom comes home tipsy and I send her to Iggy's.

Iggy is 18 and the only one who knows what I go through. And even he doesn't know everything. He has been my friend for as long as I can remember. I entrust Angel's safety to him. He entertains her and tells her tales as to what I'm doing. He distracts her from the reality I'm living for her.

Angel thinks I am in a gang. That I'm always bruised, cut, and broken from gang fights. She tells me to quit the gang. I tell her I can't. I tell her that the gang helps pay for our food, the house, our school. I tell her that they give us safety from other gangs.

Well, I used to be in a gang when I was ten. I never got hurt by them. They all got killed before they had a chance to. While I was gone to get supplies for them, someone had detonated a bomb in our clubhouse, killing all the members.

It's funny how the people doing nothing wrong get destroyed, while the destroyers survive.

Mom comes home drunk most days. I get punished every time she does. No matter what I've done – good or bad – I am beaten, _attacked_ because of it. On the rare days she doesn't drink or get high off her drugs, she acts like a real mom to Angel. She resembles the mom I used to have when I was 10.

But then, towards me, she gets the most violent.

She works as a genetic engineer, working in labs and messing with people's DNA. Being so smart means she can get creative with her punishments. And when she is somewhat sober she has time to think of anything I've done and find a torture for it. I usually can't do much after that for a day, but I make myself hold up the façade and continue on through the pain.

I would undergo all the pain thousands of times to make sure Angel never experiences a thing.

When I was 9, Mom found out she was pregnant with Angel. She wasn't a drinker or druggie then. I had a dad who loved Mom, but didn't like the fact that Mom wanted to use her pregnancy as an experiment for her work. Mom was persistent, and Dad tried to leave her, not able to handle what would come of the experiment. In her grief, she started drinking. She never experimented on Angel after all, thank God, but she murdered Dad in her drunken rage.

That was the first night she hit me.

I soon learned that crying did no good. She beat me more if I screamed or cried. So, I learned to control my emotions and hide them, so she couldn't manipulate them.

I grew my hair long to cover up my bruises and scars on my neck and face, as well as to conceal my eyes so I could hide my emotions if they leaked through my mental barrier.

When Angel was born, she was luckily not affected by the alcohol. But even though Mom loved her then (and still adores her), she tried to attack Angel when she was first brought home. She was drunk again.

I interfered.

I screamed at her and told her she was horrid mother, and that I hated her. She beat me, but Angel was fine. I swore then I would take care of Angel, since Mom obviously wouldn't, and I would keep her safe.

The next day, Mom was sober.

That same day, I was drugged, knocking me unconscious.

I woke up in a lab. Mom was nearby with a scalpel. I was lying on my stomach, strapped to a gurney. Mom smiled at me.

Then she cut into my back, with no anesthetic.

I screamed and fell unconscious to the pain.

When I woke up, I had wings. _Wings_.

When I woke up, I no longer loved my mother.

I _hated _her.

I grew to love my wings. But I never grew to love my mom again.

At 17, olive-toned, skinny, dark haired, dark eyed, and distant, I am still abused by Mom.

At 17, silent, skilled in fighting, mutated, and scarred, I still love Angel. I would die for her.

But I can't die. I have to live for her, to protect her.

I never turned to drugs, or fighting others, or cutting myself like depressed people do. No suicidal thoughts. I can't hinder myself. If I hinder myself, I hinder my ability to protect Angel.

And then she'll get hurt. And it'll be my fault.

So I am here to tell you about my life, as I live it. My emotions, thoughts, and actions, all spilled on a paper for you to read. I know you can't do anything. It just feels good for someone to _know_.

So sit back and enjoy the ride as you dive into the shadows of my life that constantly haunt me.

My name is Fang.

And this is my story.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Call for You**_** by The Side Project.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2!**

**Disclaimer: I am female, so I am not James Patterson and I do not own Maximum Ride or any of the characters… unless J.P. has something he needs to say.**

* * *

_FPOV_

I wake up at 5:00 this morning, gasping.

Gradually, my bedroom appears before my eyes, erasing the image of bloodstained labs from my mind.

It was just a dream. Phew.

I slowly rise from the twisted sheets of my bed, stretching my arms above my head and yawning. I stop when I feel pain, and my face falls into a grimace.

My shoulder and back still hurt from last night. Damn.

Groaning, I walk out of my pitch-black room and into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it. Turning on the light, I remove my shirt and rotate to survey my damage.

Against the tan of my skin, the two black, feathery slits stand out prominently, marking how freaky I really am. Or how twisted my mom is. Possibly both. But the right side of my back and shoulder are a deep purple, heavily bruised from the baseball bat Mom was pummeling me with.

I can see my arm hanging slightly wrong. Shoulder slightly dislocated again. Setting my jaw, I silently count to three before shoving my arm back in its socket. The agony shoots through me, but I remain silent, having an uncanny tolerance to the pain at this point.

Taking off my pajama pants, I stand only in my boxers, trying to assess all the damage I accumulated last night. Left leg has a long cut, but not deep. I clean it, but I don't worry about it since I can hide it and it won't hurt me much.

Right leg, lower: hurts to put pressure on it. I feel around until I found the point of pressure. _Bruised muscle, slightly broken fibula_. I set the bone but nothing else, knowing I can hide it but I'd have to deal with the pain.

Right foot, toes: an ugly black color. I try to roll onto the balls of my feet, but I'm stopped by a strong tug of pain. _Broke my big toe kicking metal baseball bat out of Mom's hands._No biggie, but it's strange how something so insignificant can hurt like hell.

I assess my arms and hands. General bruises on my right arm from trying to protect head from baseball bat. My knuckles were cut up from fighting back. I have some small cuts on my arm and chest from Mom's retaliation with a pocketknife. Don't need to be cleaned extensively – taking a shower will be all that's necessary.

Finally, I pull back my overlong hair from my cheeks and neck. A small cut near my left ear, but luckily I managed to avoid any noticeable injuries.

With my check-up complete, I shower and start to get ready for the day.

6:30: By now any homework I had to do is done. I enter Angel's room to wake her up. I see her curled up in her fluffy pink bed with only her blonde curls visible. I shake her awake and tell her to get up.

"Fang?" Angel asks, still half asleep.

"Yeah," I answer, and she gets up.

"Can we have pancakes today?"

She can't see me, but I frown, because in truth, we can't. It's not that we don't have time, or that I can't make them… I just don't have the supplies, because Mom took the grocery money I saved up to pay for drugs.

"Sorry, Ange – maybe, if you hurry, we can run to Iggy's, and he could make some," I say. But I know it's a lie. I'd have to fly there – literally – to get there in time for pancakes, and it's too dangerous for me to fly over the city in daylight.

Angel knows it's a lie too. "S'okay, Fang. We can have cereal. Do we still have any Fruit Loops left?"

I give her one of my rare grins – my Angel grins. "Angel, you are a fruit loop. When did you turn cannibalistic?"

She laughs, and we continue our day.

* * *

I walk into school at 7:30, having dropped off Angel at the elementary school a few blocks away. Her school starts at 8:00, but mine starts in five minutes, so she has to wait.

If she had a functional parent, she wouldn't have to. But as much as Mom may hallucinate about being a parent, she just sits there, so Angel has to suffer. I can't make Mom stop, and it kills me that Angel has to go through this because of my failure.

I take a seat in Advanced English, my first class.

At this point, most of you just had a _whaaaat?_ moment. Yeah, I have to deal with crap, but I still work my butt off for education.

The more I know, the more I can help Angel.

I gaze out the window, just thinking of what I have to do today, when I hear Max and her gang come into the room with my amazing bird-kid hearing.

Not to brag or anything.

And they start talking about me, as if I'm not _ten feet away from them_.

Max clone one says, "Jeesh, is black the only thing that boy can wear? He's, like, allergic to color or something."

Apparently not, since I am wearing a _red_ shirt under my jacket.

Max clone two replies, "Yeah, and even his hair is dyed to match his emo-ness."

Um, I've had this hair since I was _born_? And how am I emo?

Max clone three says, "He never shows any skin, but he comes in with cut-up knuckles and stuff. So, he gets into fights, but he obviously loses, because when guys win fights, they show off their battle scars, not hide them like pussies."

Max clone three is observant but missing important info, such as the fact that if I showed all my wounds teachers would suspect child abuse; Angel and I would be sent to foster care and possibly separated, since no one wants a 17-year-old dark and silent boy in their homes.

The last Max clone says, "I bet he's such a pussy he beats up little kids, like his sister. Maybe that's why she's never home. My little cousin always tries to play with her, but his sister always has to be at someone else's house."

My grip around the pencil I'm holding tightens, and I am glaring a hole through the window.

I finally hear Max's voice join in. "Dude, she probably goes elsewhere by choice, since Fang can't protect anyone."

I clench my teeth. Max is just saying that to provoke me. It's her goal in life, ever since I was twelve.

* * *

_Flashback_

See, when we were young, Max and I were best friends. We met in kindergarten (I can hear the chorus of _aww's_ in the background) on the playground. Unlike the rest of the kids there, who wanted to play tag and swing and believed the opposite gender had cooties, I just wanted to lie in the grass and see pictures in the sky. I was fascinated by it.

Of course, no one wanted to join me, but I didn't mind. I was a loner even at the age of 6.

Max was the only kid who came over to me.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Looking at the sky," I replied.

"Why?"

I looked away from the sky to glance at her. "Because slides stay slides, but the sky is never the same."

She liked the answer and lied next to me.

From that point on, we were inseparable.

But when I started getting abused around 9 or 10, I didn't get to go to school as much. I missed more days in the initial years because I wasn't determined enough to tolerate the pain. I have no idea what happened while I was gone, but Max's and I's friendship slowly fell apart.

She stopped hanging with me between classes at first. But we still ate lunch with each other and hung out after school.

When I came back from Christmas break in fifth grade, Max didn't sit with me at lunch.

"Some other girls want me to sit with them," she said.

"Which table are they?" I asked.

She pointed to the popular punk table across the cafeteria. There were two open seats.

"Cool, let's go," I said.

She didn't meet my eyes when she said, "They only want me to sit with them."

"Oh," I replied, keeping a blank face.

I ate lunch alone that day.

I never got to eat lunch with Max again.

Soon, we stopped hanging out after school.

"My friends want to go to a movie. I can't go to the park," she said.

"Can I go?" I asked, but I knew the answer.

"It's a girl thing," she muttered, looking away.

She never hung out with me again.

I believed we were still "amigos", though, until her "friends", the Max minions, really insulted me.

"How could hang out with such a loser like him, Max?" they said.

And Max didn't retaliate. She stared at me, cold and distant, and answered, "I don't know."

_I don't know_.

The friendship head was severed.

It terminated completely when one day, Max's gang cornered me after school. They started beating me up. I was fighting back fairly well, but there were four of them and one of me.

Max clone one said, "Max, punch his lights out!"

"_She wouldn't,"_ I thought.

And she punched me in the face.

I staggered back. I couldn't keep my face blank, and shock poured onto my face as I held my bleeding nose.

Her gang stood around with smug looks on their faces.

Finally, my anger came around, and I removed emotion from my face, making me seem fairly calm.

"Hm," I said.

_Friendship over_.

Then I kicked Max in the stomach.

She fell to her butt, emitting _oof_as she hit the ground, and I walked out of the circle.

* * *

It's easy to see why Max and I do not get along.

I don't realize I am clenching the pencil so hard until I hear it snap. I look down to see the two fragments of what used to be a writing utensil.

Dang it. That's the third pencil I've snapped.

I hear the Max clones snickering. "Max, I think he can hear us!" clone two says in a fake shocked voice.

"No shit, really? I thought I was deaf. Thanks for clearing that up for me," I reply, and I see out of my perif that clone two is glaring at me.

"No one likes a smart-ass," clone three says.

"At least I don't have a dumb ass. That would be terrible," I say.

At that point, more people come into class, and the conversation ends, allowing me to continue my day.

* * *

After school, I walk to Angel's school and wait for three o'clock to arrive so I can take her home. I make it there and sit on a bench, pulling out the cell phone Iggy's mom gave me when I turned sixteen. She said that every teenage boy had one, so I should too. She assured me she'd pay for it, because she knew we had financial problems.

She doesn't know that we wouldn't have financial problems if Mom wouldn't spend all the money she earns getting wasted.

I call Iggy. He works at Starbucks, which is a twenty minute drive from our house, and he drives by our house every day on his way there. Iggy graduated last year, so he works during the day. He looks in and tells me if Mom is home or not.

If Mom is home, I take Angel to Iggy's.

If Mom isn't home, Angel and I spend time at home, because she usually won't be home till the next day.

Of course, there have been surprise visits, when Mom comes home late, and Iggy calls telling me he's seen her car heading home, so I quickly take her to Iggy's house and prepare myself.

And some days, if Mom is home and sober, and I'll have Iggy bring her home around dinnertime.

Those days don't happen often.

The phone rings a few times before Iggy picks up. "Hello?" he asks.

"Igs. It's Fang."

He immediately knows what I want. "She's not home."

"Cool," I reply. "Thanks."

"No prob," he says, and he hangs up.

When Angel comes out from school, I take her hand and we start walking.

"Where are we going today?" she asks.

"Home."

"Yay!" she says, and she picks up the pace.

My heart pangs. She's happy to be going home.

Our lives are screwed up.

* * *

It's 8 o'clock. I fed Angel some Spaghetti O's mixed with rice for dinner.

I need to go to the grocery.

I need to get money to _go_ to the grocery.

My phone rings, and I freeze in place.

Iggy's the only one that has that number.

Crap. Mom's coming home.

I answer it. "How far?" I ask, slight panic seeping into my voice.

"Twenty minutes," he says.

I tense. "Twenty?" I ask. It only takes ten minutes to get to our house by car from Iggy's house.

"Dude, I'm at Starbucks. Your mom wasn't home, and some guy wanted me to cover him tonight, so I took it, and I can't get off work, and –"

I hang up on him.

Crap. Crap. _Crap_.

"Angel," I say, running over to where she is on the couch, playing with dolls. "Do you know any friends that you can play with tonight?"

She looks at me, confused. "Um, Gazzy's home. But why –"

"Get any stuff you need. You're going over there."

Angel frowns, understanding. "The Gang's coming, aren't they?"

The lie feels like fire as I utter it. "Yeah."

She gathers up her backpack of overnight stuff, and I grab her and run outside. Letting my wings out, I launch into the air and start flying.

"Where does he live?" I ask Angel.

"Um, 1231 Gulf Ridge Road," she replies.

See how smart she is? Most 7-year-olds couldn't tell you the name of the road, much less the street address.

But the address rings an unwelcome bell in my memory.

"See," Angel explains, "Gazzy's real name is Zepher, Zepher –"

"Ride," I finish. "Max's little brother."

So I am heading to my ex-best friend's house to have her protect Angel. Faaantastic.

As much as I despise her, I still trust her to take care of Angel. Angel is impossible not to love.

I land on their road in some trees, concealed by the dark of night. Retracting my wings, I jump to the ground with Angel in my arms. Once I hit the ground, I let her go but take her hand. We start running toward Max's house, my broken fibula and toe throbbing with every step.

We arrive at the door and ring the bell. There's a pause, but then I hear footsteps approach the door. It opens to reveal Max, and her face is one of shock as she sees that I'm the one calling.

"What –" she starts to ask, but I cut her off, being in a hurry and all.

"Look, I know you hate me and all, but can Angel stay for tonight? She was supposed to stay with a friend of mine, but he had to work, and she can't be at home because I –" I stop, almost spilling out the reason.

"_because I have to protect her from being beaten up by her drunken mother."_

That would have gone over well.

After the smallest hesitation, I finish. "- I have to work, and my mom's on a business trip, so she'd be alone. So can she?"

Max's eyes are wide in shock, whether from my appearance or from the fact that I just said more words to her in less than a minute than I've said to her in the past six years.

"Max," I repeat.

That seems to snap her out of it. "Sure. Whatever."

Internally, I breathe a sigh of relief. "Thanks. I'll pick her up tomorrow morning."

I look at Angel. "I'll see you in the morning, Ange."

She smiles at me. "Ok, Fang," she says, and she hugs me. I hug her back, giving her my special grin.

I let go and nudge Angel to go inside. I glance out of the corner of my eye and see Max with a weird expression on her face. I can't decipher what it is.

Angel looks up at Max. "You're really pretty. Thanks for letting me stay with you."

Max softens up, an adoring look entering her eye. "It's no problem at all, sweetie. Here, I'll show you around the house. Want anything to drink?" she asks, and she shuts the door as they enter.

I exhale out loud, knowing Angel was in capable hands.

Then I fly back home.

Once home, I only have wait a few more minutes before the door is slammed open. Mom's eyes pass over the scene wildly, looking for something. When she sees me, her gaze locks down.

"You piece of shit," she says, before throwing something at my head.

I dodge it enough to prevent it from hitting my head, but it hits my arm.

And I immediately fall to the ground, twitching.

Stupid taser technology Mom gets from work.

As I shudder in pain, Mom walks over to me with a sick grin on her face.

"Welcome to Hell," she says with a slur, holding up her fist.

"_I'm already there_," I think as her fist flies at my face.

* * *

**Just kind of an information chapter, giving you more background to his life, but I hope you still enjoyed it!**

**This chapter is dedicated to**_**Me and the Moon**_**by Something Corporate.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapta 3!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Maximum Ride characters or plotline. All hail J.P. Woot.**

* * *

_FPOV_

I awake groggy.

The room is deeply dark around me, and the surface I am lying on is hard.

I try to sit up, but dizziness and pain overtake me, blacking me out for a few moments. When I open my eyes again, I don't immediately move. I lie there until my eyes became adjusted to the darkness.

I am lying on the floor, the thin, industrial carpeting feeling like concrete beneath me. A dark stain is situated by my stomach, and I slowly realize that I am bleeding.

My whole body feels like someone tried to compress me. From the dizziness and pain, I have a huge bruise on my head, if not a concussion. I feel extreme pain in my left elbow, and when I slowly turn my head to access the reason why, I see the lower half of my arm facing the opposite way it is supposed to.

This will hurt to reset.

I feel around my abdomen, where the bloodstain is around, trying to discover the location of my wound. When my hand comes in contact with wetness, I assess the damage.

_Cut, lower right side. Fairly deep, still bleeding, but not heavily._ It continues around to my back, but to where, I can't tell. I need to get a mirror to see the real damage.

Gingerly I sit up with slug-like speed, trying to prevent the dizziness and black-out pain. Once sitting up, I begin to stand, still progressing at a sluggish pace.

My right leg explodes with pain as I put more pressure on it.

_Definitely rebroken, if not more broken than before. Progressed from a hairline fracture to a deep break._

Finally standing, I slowly limp to the bathroom, checking the clock as I pass it.

3:30 AM.

Last I remembered, it was 1:50, and Mom had just found the kitchen knives from where I had hidden them. I had leapt at her, trying to remove a sickeningly jagged blade from her possession. I had managed to slam my fist into her nose, startling her. I kicked her feet out from under her while she was disoriented.

However, as she fell, she shoved my shoulder, twisting me sideways. I fell onto my hands, and I remember her landing on me, a pain in my side.

Then, Mom had slammed my head into the floor, and I don't remember anything after that.

That explains the cut, I guess.

I feel the cold tile of the bathroom under my feet. I shut the door behind me, locking it. I search the wall drowsily for the light switch, and when my hand finally finds the lever, I flip it on.

The light blinds me momentarily, and I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the lack of black. When my eyes eventually orient themselves, I stare at my reflection.

The person in the mirror looks like they had been through a car accident. A good alibi, if anything else.

I am distraught to see my right cheek was a faint purplish color – the beginnings of a bruise. I have a jagged cut along the edge of my left eye from my temple to my chin. It isn't deep, but it is a vivid dark red and noticeable beyond belief.

I'll have to use that alibi after all.

People are going to wonder what the heck I've gotten myself into.

My lower left arm hangs at an unnatural angle, reminding me of the pain radiating from it. Setting my jaw, I count to three… then five, needing the extra two numbers to brace myself before I yank my arm around to the correct position.

Oh. My. Freaking. _OW._ That hurt like hell.

The intense pain fades after a moment or so, now that my bone is back in a natural position.

From what I can see of my arms from my t-shirt, I have some nasty bruises, especially on my left arm. I've obtained a few haphazard cuts along the upper part of my right arm, but I don't feel them, so I'm not too concerned.

Now. For the rest of me.

Ignoring the stabs of pain, I remove my shirt and pants in standard check-up procedure. My chest is red from Mom's fists – when I had gotten her in a headlock – but I am not bruised, luckily, since the hits were clumsy. My legs are in the same condition as they were before last night, with the exception of my right fibula.

I kicked Mom so hard in the stomach last night that she flew into the wall. I probably rebroke the bone myself.

Mom's rebound involved her pouncing off the wall and slamming me into the ground. She removed a taser ball from her pocket and shocked me. While I was flopping like a fish out of water, she stepped on my leg, grinding her foot into my broken bone.

That's where the extensive damage must have come from.

Seeing the cut in my side, I turn around. The cut travels diagonally across my back to my upper left shoulder. Noticing it travelling across to my left wing, I try to unfurl my wing further than it already is to assess for damage.

And I don't make it very far before hissing in pain.

It is still oozing blood, and from the pain in my wing, I am not flying anytime soon…especially if I don't get this fixed.

Crap.

I have to pick up Angel this morning.

I don't have a car (Mom carpooled – I know, the mad, abusive, druggie mother is environmentally helpful? It doesn't make sense to me either), and I can't just walk there with my wing sticking out and blood staining my shirt.

That draws attention, 'cause it's not every day that a person sees a bleeding bird kid _that shouldn't exist in the human world_ walking in a green yard, picket fence neighborhood.

Wielding my right arm, I use a washcloth to clean what I can reach of the cut. I almost bandage it before I decide to go ahead and shower; it will clean the blood off of me.

The cold water stabs like knives against my raw and bleeding skin, but it washes away the dried blood, turning the water red. The soap helps remove the notorious smell of copper, but not completely, seeing as I still have a fresh wound.

After washing, I bandage the section of the cut I actually _can_ reach before adorning my pajama pants and going into the living room to finish my homework, since I was awake. I sit down at the kitchen table with a towel wrapped around my waist to sop up the blood.

Can't say I don't try to keep a clean house.

* * *

Around 5, I am done, so I sneak into Mom's bathroom, maneuvering silently past her sleeping figure.

Once I reach my destination, I find her make-up bag and search for her concealer.

Make-up is gross, in my opinion, but concealer is useful if you want to, you know, _conceal_ something.

Like a huge bruise.

Finding the familiar tube, I spread the gooey liquid on my cheek until the color is mostly hidden. I then put the tube back in her bag, set the bag back on the shelf, and exit Mom's bedroom.

Once back in the living room, I sit on the couch, sketching in a notebook until 6.

Yeah, I sketch. I'm no artist, but the ragged lines I draw make shapes and tell the story well enough.

All the drawings I do get torn out of the notebook and taped to my bedroom wall. My whole room is black besides my sketch-ridden walls.

Most of the papers aren't even pictures; words are just scrawled across them, stating my emotions, like my pain and anger, or my love and determination.

My room is the only place where I let my emotions go. Everywhere else I keep them under lock and key.

I keep my room black because the darkness comforts me. Black hides things. It hides my emotions and my secrets, and most importantly, it hides me from my tormentors.

Not to mention black seems to be the color to describe my life.

My favorite color, though, is blue. Blue is the sky, open and free. Blue is water, clean and flowing.

Blue is Angel's eyes, the reason I fight for my life.

I put down the notebook and walk over to the kitchen phone, dialing in the number for my cell. I gave it Angel so I could get a hold of her, or she could get a hold of me.

As I listen to the phone ring on the other side, I think of the words I will say to Angel. How I will tell her the gang had a rift last night, and I got caught in the middle. How I won't be able to pick her up because my wing got sliced, and how she needed to tell Max to take her home so she could bandage it for me.

How she had to lie, because no one could know about the wings or the gang.

Angel's the only one who knows about the wings. Even Iggy doesn't know.

My wings are kind of a big deal to me. Angel knows because I trust her beyond all else. She's part of the secret world that unfolded when I learned I could fly. It's an experience I share with her on occasion, because it makes her so happy.

"Hello?" I hear on the other line, snapping me out of my thoughts. The voice is slurred by sleep.

"Angel?" I ask, not sure if Angel is the one who picked up.

"No, it's Max. Who is this?"

Shoot. I have to make up an excuse. "Fang. Look, I need to talk to Angel –"

"Well, she's asleep upstairs. Why the hell are you calling at six in the morning?"

"Why did she not have her phone with her?"

I hear an angry sigh as I ignored her question. "Her backpack was left downstairs, and I was sleeping on the couch, so I heard it go off. But why are you –"

I sigh in relief as soon as I hear that Angel is okay. "Look, I know it's early, but I need you to take Angel to my house as soon as you can. I can't pick her up anymore."

There is a pause. Then, Max says, "Why can't you?"

Pause, on my part this time. What do I say?

"My mom was heading home from the airport at three this morning. She was tired, and she didn't see another car turn in front of her, and…"

I pause, adding what seemed to be me swallowing my emotions, while I actually think through my next words.

Then, continuing, I finish the thought.

"…and she got in an accident. I got a call from the hospital where she was taken in at 4, and she is in ICU. I want to tell Angel in person about Mom, but I don't have a car, and my friend from work is not home to give me a ride."

A few moments of silence follow my rant-lie. I can't tell if Max is mulling over whether what I said is true, or if she is shocked by my outburst of words.

I am really ruining my dark and silent reputation. In less than 24 hours I have said about five times as many words as I usually do in public.

Finally, I hear a reply. "Okay. I'll get her up and bring her over in 15."

With that, she hangs up.

* * *

15 minutes later, I hear a knock on the front door. Pulling a shirt on for the moment and tucking in my wing painfully, I walk to the door and open it to reveal Max and Angel.

"Fang!" Angel exclaimed, leaping at my legs and hugging them. "What's wrong? Max told me something's wrong but won't tell me! I wanna know!"

"In just a minute, Ange," I say, stroking her pretty blonde curls before looking up at Max.

Her eyes are glued to the left side of my face, where my scar shines vivid against my tan skin. Her eyes are filled with questions, but before she can speak any of them, I speak.

"Thanks," I whisper, giving her a look that says _leave now, cause I'm not gonna give an answer_.

She looks away quickly, embarrassed that I caught her staring. "Whatever," she stammers before promptly turning away and heading back to her car.

I shut the door and look down at Angel, still clutching my leg.

"What's wrong?" she asks again, now that she has my full attention.

I sigh, preparing to lie again. "My back is messed up. The gang got into a rift, and I got caught in the middle. They cut my wing without realizing it. I need you to bandage it. Just do what I say, kay Ange?"

She nods solemnly, blue eyes wide as she looks up at me.

Slowly, I take off my shirt and lead her to the bathroom, where the first aid kit is located. Angel gasps when she saw my back, and I painstakingly extend my wing to show the cut.

"Now, Ange, take the blue cloth and wipe the blood off…"

Angel cleans and bandages my wound, under my careful instructions. Once she finishes, she kisses the bandage.

I glance over my shoulder at her, my eyebrows raised. "Why'd you do that?" I ask her.

She looks at me with a smile. "You always kiss my boo-boos to make them better, so I have to kiss yours to make yours better."

My face softens and I feel an Angel grin come onto my face. I turn around completely and pull Angel into my lap, giving her a hug.

"You silly girl, I love you so much!" I say with happiness in my voice.

"I'll love you, too, if you make me Fruit Loops!" Angel replies, giggling.

I laughed. "You are a Fruit Loop," I say; then, I pick her up and go to pour her cereal.

* * *

I sit in the courtyard of the school, eating an apple I stole from a kid's lunch while he wasn't looking. The sky is clear today, and since it's warm, the school is letting kids go outside during the lunch period.

My head rests against the red brick wall of the school, allowing my back to not touch anything as to reduce the pain. I take a bite out of the apple and chew slowly, gazing at the clouds.

I become lost in my thoughts as I draw pictures in the sky.

"What happened to your face?"

I cast my face away from the sky to see Max standing near my secluded spot, her arms crossed over her chest. Her gaze is steady as she stares me down, waiting for my reply.

My heart pangs uncomfortably as I look at the familiar Max pose. Max used to always strike it when she wanted me to spill, because she wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. I miss our friendship and how I could always tell her everything.

"_No,"_ I remind myself. "_You miss the old Max. Not this one._"

I quickly steel myself, but I keep my expression bored. "Why do you care?"

In other words, _go away_.

However, to my surprise, Max does not catch the double meaning. Her expression becomes one of surprise, her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

"I…I don't know," she whispers. Then, she quickly turns and speed-walks away from me clumsily.

What was that about?

* * *

I sit outside Angel's school, waiting for Angel's school day to end. I call Iggy.

"Hello?" he answers on the second ring.

"Yo," I respond.

"Oh, hey Fang. Your mom never left the house, from what I can tell. Am I going to see you and Angel?"

I almost reply with "yes", but I stop mid breath.

Why should we burden Iggy today? If Mom is still home, she's probably sober. Angel would get to experience Mom on her best behavior. We might even get a real dinner, like she used to make me when I was little.

"…you know what? No. I'll take Angel to play in the park, and then we'll go home. Mom will be sober today. And Angel needs some stress relief. She had a rough morning – what with patching me up."

A pause, then, "Are you okay, man?"

I give a small chuckle. "Obviously, or I wouldn't be calling you."

I hear him give a small laugh, but he isn't humored by my joke. "You're always okay, but are you _OK_?" Iggy asks again.

I sigh, then answer, "I'll never be okay in _that_ way until Mom either quits drugs or dies."

Pause again. "Okay, man. See ya."

Iggy hangs up.

I go back to waiting, keeping a blank expression while observing the people passing me.

Middle-aged bald man, running: he's not fat, but he's not muscled, so he isn't running because of training or because an old passion. The heavy amount of sweat shows he is working hard, but his breathing is pretty even, so he hasn't been running long. His eyes have a determination that suggests he is running for health reasons, and not because his wife told him to. Yeah, he's married, from the indented mark around his ring finger, taken off so he wouldn't sweat it off and lose it.

Young couple, early twenties, walking by, talking: the man is talking about their plans for tonight, and by the excitement in his eyes, and by the way he is eying her figure, he is hoping to get some action. The girl is pretending to listen, but she won't meet his eyes. She itching her arm, a sign she is nervous. But not because she's afraid to get action. She's already _had_ some action, and recently. Her cheeks are pink in recollection of the event, not to mention there is a receipt in her purse from her purchase of a pregnancy test.

Women, business suit, early thirties, talking on the phone: she's angry at whoever she is talking to, but she doesn't reveal it by her voice. Her fist keeps clenching in frustration, and her eyebrows are furrowed in annoyance. She has a kid, because she mentions how a Charles is still in school. The kid has to be in elementary school, because that is the only school that hasn't been let out, and she is too young to have a kid in college, unless she had a kid when she was eleven. Her outfit and her annoyance tell me that whomever she is talking to (presumably her husband) was supposed to pick the kid up, but forgot, and the woman had to take off work.

"Hey Fang!"

Angel's voice snaps me back from my watchings, and I see her little face as she sits beside me on the bench.

"Hey Angel. How was school?"

"School was fun! Mrs. Rimmsaw had a lady in today, and we made teddy bears! Look!"

Angel pulls her arm out from behind her back to reveal a brown, sloppily stitched together teddy bear, with black button eyes, a felt nose, and a permanent marker smile.

"He's great, Ange. What's his name?" I ask her with a small grin.

"Not he! She! And _her_ name is Suzy," Angel replies, giving me a disappointed look for not knowing the gender of her bear.

"I'm sorry Angel. _And_ Suzy," I add, since Angel gives me another look. "Would you two like to go to the park with me, as an apology for my rude behavior?"

Angel gives me a huge grin. "Yes, we most certainly would. Race ya!"

I laugh and then proceed to mock run behind her, pretending to be mad when she "beats" me.

Angel runs to the swings and claims one for her and one for her bear, demanding I push them both. Chuckling, I agree, and I start pushing.

"Fang?" Angel asks after a while.

"Yeah, Ange?" I respond.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she questions again.

"Sure, Ange."

"Sometimes, I wish I could fly like you," she states, "because then I could fly right up to Heaven, where Santa and the Easter Bunny live, and I'd ask them to help you, and they would, and everything would be happy."

I look away, a sudden sadness overtaking me at her innocent question. She has no idea what I have gone through. And that is the way I want it. But sometimes…

Sometimes it hurts that she believes my lies so well. It hurts that I have to lie to her, while she tells me all of her heart's desires.

But that's why I lie. So she can believe that wings are a good thing – that she can fly to meet the Easter Bunny and make the world a better place.

"Maybe someday, you can," I say.

Maybe someday.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to**_**What I've Done (Acoustic Version)**_**by Marié Digby.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4!**

**Disclaimer: Maximum Ride: not mine. All yours, JP.**

* * *

_FPOV_

Today I'm not going to talk about the crap that goes on in my life.

Today I'm not going to gripe about lost friendships of my past.

Today I'm not going to fear tomorrow.

Today I'm going to live in the moment, right now, with no care in the world except that I had fun with Angel.

With Mom's day of sobriety, as well as her recent four day absence, my wounds have had a chance to heal.

Yeah, I heal _that _fast. With the wings comes the genetically-altered avian advanced healing system, free of charge, with free shipping and handling. It's handy with my lifestyle.

But I said I wasn't going to talk about this stuff. Just thought you should know, but moving on…

Today, I take Angel to a playground.

We play tag until we both collapse on the ground in exhaustion and laughter.

I help her climb a tree, and we sit in the branches high above everyone else. Angel tells me stories about her life in grade school, about the girl who has a pony and the boy who already gets in trouble because he makes bombs.

We (quite rudely) claim the slide by pretending that it is about to burst into flames, and that the other kids had to leave so we can fix it. Angel then proceeds to climb to the highest slide, which is always crowded with rowdy ten-year-olds, and sticks her tongue out at them in ridicule.

When she slides down, I grab her and proceed to tickle her to death as "punishment" for her mean behavior. She then tries to tickle me, in which I pretend to actually die from over-tickleness.

After not moving for a few moments, Angel kicks my side and asks in a worried voice, "Fang?"

At that, I grin, my eyes still closed, and say, "It's not nice to kick people when they're dead, Angel. Didn't I teach you any manners?" and we lie on the ground laughing as hard as we can.

Later, I take Angel to the ice cream stand, and I con the man out of two chocolate ice cream cones. I bet I can always guess which hand a marble was in. With me turned around, I tell the man to put the hand with the marble up to his forehead and create a strong mental image of the marble in his mind. Then, with his hands presented in fists in front of him, I always guess correctly where the marble was, so he reluctantly gives us the free cones.

The trick: the hand he had up to his forehead will always be paler, for the elevated position causes blood to drain from his hand.

I know. I'm such a bad person.

As we sit, eating ice cream and watching the sun set, Angel asks me a question.

"Why did I go Max's house a few nights ago, and not Iggy's?"

Oops. I guess I _am_ going to talk about my past friendship. I'm a liar.

I sigh, the fun of the day momentarily clouded by the onslaught of sadness my lost friendship brings me.

"Iggy was busy," I reply.

"Why don't I go to Max's more? I like it – I get to play with Gazzy, and Max is fun."

I look at my hands. "Max and I aren't on good terms. She hates me."

"What did you do?"

I feel anger flash up in me. I didn't _do_ anything. It was Max's fault.

However, I keep the bitterness out of my voice. I'm not mad at Angel.

"No one did anything. Max just decided she didn't like me anymore."

"Why does she have all these pictures of you and her in her room, then?"

My head snaps to Angel, my curiosity pricked. "She has _what_?"

Angel continues, oblivious to my shocked tone. "Pictures of you guys. Her bedroom wall is covered in them. Like this one."

She pulls a Polaroid out of her coat pocket and hands it to me. I take the picture and analyze the image.

It's Max and I when we were ten. It had to have been taken by Max's mom, because our whole bodies are in the picture. We are lying in the grass, and I am pointing at the sky, smiling. Max is looking where I am pointing, and her smile makes my heart throb uncomfortably. I loved Max's smile when we were friends. I would do anything to see her smile.

"Fang?"

Angel's voice snaps me out of my reverie. I look at her and hand her the picture.

"Angel, you shouldn't take people's stuff, or snoop into their personal belongings in the first place. Give this back to her and apologize."

She stares down at her hands with a heartbreaking expression. "Okay, Fang," she mutters.

My heart wrenches and I stand up. "Come on," I tell her. "Let's go fly."

Her expression immediately perks up. "Yay!"

Checking to see if the area is clear, I open my massive 14 foot black wings, and Angel hops into my arms.

"Ready?" I ask her, flapping my wings in preparation.

"Yeah!" she exclaims, snuggling closer in my embrace.

With that, I launch into the sunset sky.

There is something about the air that always puts my heart at ease. I don't know if it's the sun on my back or the stars above at night, or if it's the breeze seemingly blowing away my troubles. Maybe it's the fact that I am escaping gravity, which holds me to the ground to suffer. Maybe it's the fact that I am doing something that should be impossible.

Whatever it is, I am happiest amongst the sky.

Without realizing it, I find myself laughing and smiling while flying with Angel, just at the pure enjoyment of flying in the sky. Angel whoops with excitement, gazing at the world below us. I laugh at her energy and speed up by slightly adjusting my wings.

I learned to fly from the hawks of the city. Finding access to rooftops at night isn't easy, but I managed. My first flight attempts almost made me go splat on the ground, but the hawks seemed to take pity on the huge, ugly bird and let me fly with them. That really helped me master the air with less effort. The hawks still fly with me on occasion, but usually when I'm alone.

As the sun shines its last feeble rays on the city, and the stars begin to appear, I know I need to take Angel home soon.

The day was bound to end sometime.

I'll have eventually go back to living under gravity.

But right now, with Angel having the time of her life and my worries blown away by the breeze, I smile her special smile and just _live_, for the first time in a long while.

Because gravity holds me under its grip and dares me to move clear of its hold.

And I tell gravity "Suck it" and I fly.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Dare You To Move **_**by Switchfoot.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Maximum Ride (JP does, duh). I do own my sucky typos, when they exist, and my grammar too. Go me!**

* * *

_FPOV_

Angel's sick.

And I can't _freaking move_ at all.

Last night, Mom came home, well after midnight. Angel was asleep in her room, so when I heard the car pull in the driveway, I grabbed my key and locked her in, hiding the key deep in the recesses of my room, before shutting my door.

I stood by the door, waiting in the darkness. There was some laughing and the clinking of Mom missing the keyhole in her drunken state.

I had a glare on my face, knowing she wouldn't care what expression was on my face when she was drunk.

That was why I was surprised when Mom came in, turning on the light, and revealing a completely sober person.

"Hi, sweetie," she said. "Why are you still up?"

I was frozen into silence, unable to move my lips to form an answer.

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Never can get an answer out of you. Just like your father."

She turned away from me and set her purse on the kitchen counter. Once set down, she started digging through it, looking for something.

"Sorry I was gone so long. Did you miss me?"

Finally I was able to answer. "Sorta."

It was true, because I _did_ miss her – the old her, the woman who loved me and didn't give me hell.

She froze and looked back over her shoulder at me. "Sorta?" she said in a deceptively calm voice.

I spilled the truth, knowing I'd already screwed up, and no way was _I_ kissing her ass now.

"I don't miss you when you come home most times drunk and violent."

She looked back in her purse again, pulling something out, but I couldn't see what. "I'm not drunk now, so you don't have to _sorta _miss me. Good thing I brought my work home with me, so you wouldn't _sorta _miss me anymore."

With that, she whirled around, holding a dangerous looking needle.

"Won't you help me, honey?" she asked with fake honey in her voice.

"No thank you, _Mother_," I answer, hatred spit into every syllable.

"I'll help myself, then," she stated, and she threw the needle at me.

I dived and avoided it. This started an all-out run-and-hide session, ending when I tripped and ended up with the needle jabbed in my right leg.

Then all I really remember was pain. So much pain.

I faintly recall that I remained conscious, because I knew I had to protect Angel. I remember being enraged, and grabbing Mom in a head-lock. I remember banging her head into the floor until she went limp from unconsciousness. I remember dragging her into her room and locking the door, knowing she had a bathroom and her drugs available.

I remember going to my bed.

But I remember the absolute, agonizing _pain_ coursing through my leg.

If I hadn't stopped moving, I would have screamed my lungs out. My control was there by nanometers.

I was dizzy from the agony. I puked for a while in the trash bin near my bed. I just tried not to move, clenching my teeth to hold in the yells that tried to escape.

I wanted to _die._

But I couldn't. Angel. I had to hang on for Angel.

Pain was a message.

Pain was a freaking message.

That got sent to me by every person in the continental US.

Oh. My. Freaking. _Ow_!

At one time, I tried to get up from the bed… and nearly passed out from the pain that shot through my body.

Eventually I managed to stand and move around, navigating past the slanting world. As long as I didn't open my mouth, I could manage.

If I opened my mouth, I was going to scream bloody murder.

* * *

Now that you're caught up…

Angel has a bad cold. She isn't going to school.

But I have to.

I have a huge academic achievement test today. If you miss it today, you have to take it later, paying the _one-hundred dollar fee_.

I can't afford that. So I have to go today.

I called Iggy earlier, and he agreed to take care of her, saying he could get off work today.

As soon as he had arrives, I navigate myself out the door without a word, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

I figured once I am hidden, I can whip out my wings and fly, causing no pain since I wouldn't be on my feet.

Unfortunately, as soon as I launch into the air, I fall to the concrete and black out for a moment from the pain of leaping off my leg. This successfully scrapes up the left side of my face and arm.

Flying: out.

I slowly manage to walk to school, clenching my jaw shut so hard I probably will grind my teeth to stubs.

But I make it there – to school and class.

Eventually, the bell rings, and the teacher proctoring us out the test.

I can honestly say it is harder to do proofs and write literary evaluations when your all your mind wants to do is think about how bad your leg hurts.

For all of you who have ever been in the same situation…represent.

Sucks, right?

A time later, after I finish the last question (and now my brain can now officially turn to mush for the day), I stand up and turn in the test to the teacher.

"Did you find the test completable?" the teacher asks me, being overly friendly (even using a nonexistent word – I mean, completable?).

I nod, knowing I can't open my mouth without screaming still. Damn Mom and her ability to have every drug known to man _except_ pain meds.

I wonder why the teacher is talking to me, anyway.

However, after one look around the room, I see that I am the last one to finish. Looking at the clock, I realize I had taken longer than I normally would have, trying to focus around the pain.

How embarrassing.

And least that's over, and I can officially go curl up into a ball and _die_.

I walk out of the classroom after collecting my things, carefully walking with even steps – and not limping, which I wanted to do – to create the illusion that I'm not crippled by my psychotic mother.

"I don't know what to think, Max. Fangie comes out so much later than the rest of us. Is he really _that_ stupid?" says Max clone one.

I grimace. Great. _Just_ what I need right now.

"With the scraped up face, I think the test might have beaten him up!" Max clone two adds, her voice closer. I can hear their footsteps as they catch up with me.

"Which is it, Fang? Are you stupid or pathetic?"

I turn to face Max, rage filling my head, but I keep my expression bored and calm.

I really – I mean _really_ really – want to make a snarky comeback, but all that will be coming out of my mouth at the moment is something probably resembling a dying animal screech.

"Answer her, dipwad!" Max clone three screeches, kicking my leg.

My _right_ leg.

"_Crap," _I think briefly.

The world tilts dangerously, and fast. My vision narrows.

"_Not in school. They can't find out. No one can. Not is school…"_

I hear screaming. Who is shot? What is going on?

"_Mine_," my subconscious informs me in horror.

I feel the concrete below me before everything disappears.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Warden**_** by The Queen Killing Kings.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6!**

**Sorry for the delay – school is back in session, so most likely, updates will occur on the weekends. I meant to update on Saturday, but I ended up working, so I couldn't.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Short, sweet, and to the point.**

* * *

_**FPOV**_

I wake to the sound of beeping.

I can't figure out what it is though. Just beep, beep, beep…

My eyes snap open.

Crap.

Memories flood my disoriented brain, recapping my screw-up of falling unconscious, of screaming.

I failed.

I am in a hospital, the last place I ever want to be.

Why?

Because in hospitals, they strip you naked to put you in backless, putrid green gowns. They can see every little scar and bruise on your body.

Which they now know cover my _entire_ body.

I'm guessing they took an X-ray or an MRI to identify what the problem was.

Which means they probably saw all my broken, screwed up bones.

Most importantly, being exposed in hospitals means that they saw my _freaking wings_.

Bad day.

Despite my internal panic attack (which is not so internal, since the freaking monitor speeds up to sound like beepbeepbeep) I keep a controlled, bored exterior, like _what? I have wings? I'm a freak of nature? Cool. Can I get some soup?_

I hear elevated breathing at the sound of my speed up heart monitor. Someone is in here?

Angel. She must have found out, and Iggy took her here.

I turn my head to see her. "Hey Ange –"

I stop, for sitting in the scrawny visitor seat is not Angel, nor Iggy.

No, it is _Max_.

BeepBeepBeep.

"_Stupid machine" _I think.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I ask Max incredulously, unable to keep my shock out of my voice.

She meets my eyes. "What do you _think _I'm doing here? Watching you."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, I noticed that. _Why_?"

She remains silent for a moment, as if struggling to find an answer. Finally, she shrugs. "I guess I feel guilty."

I roll my head back to a normal position, staring at the ceiling to hide my emotions. "Why? It's not your fault."

I can almost feel her glare. "Yes, it is my fault. If Jessica hadn't kicked you because I told her to –"

"It's _not your fault._ Shut up!"

"Yes it is! Why won't you blame me?"

I shoot my gaze to her. "Why? You did nothing! It's not your freaking fault!"

"Why aren't you yelling at me for how horrible a person I am? Why aren't you telling me I should go to hell? Why aren't you blaming me for ending our friendship?"

Whaaaaat?

But she is right. Why am I _not _yelling at her? I've always wanted to scream at her about how big a bitch she has been and how I hate her and how I wish she would run in front of bus.

So why am I not blaming her?

BeepBeepBeep.

"Shut UP!" I yell at the machine, and I yank the cord of the monitor hard enough to pull it out of the socket, ending the beeping.

Silence fills the room. I can feel Max's fear in the air.

I exhale loudly and stare at the ceiling. "I can't… I can't blame you," I say quietly.

Why am I confessing this?

"_Cause I never wanted to quit being friends,_" my subconscious tells me.

However, I don't stop there. No, I continue on, humiliating myself further.

"It… it wasn't your fault I wasn't good enough to be your friend. I wasn't…"

I stop momentarily to hold back the onslaught of emotions trying to bust the dam holding them in.

Continuing, I finish, "…I wasn't good enough."

I want to see the emotions in her eyes, but I am too ashamed that I just confessed my feelings to the girl _whose goal in life is to make mine miserable._

The silence in the room clothes the area with tension, awkward at best.

"I have to get out of here," I say to myself, breaking the silence.

"You can't just leave the hospital," Max says.

"Yeah, I can," I reply, climbing out of the bed and pulling out the IV from my arm. I stand up, content when I feel no pain in my leg. I finally face Max, my expression blank and controlled now.

"If you stare at my ass while I get my clothes, I will shatter your face," I warn Max.

She sighs dramatically and then covers her eyes with her hand. "There, happy?"

"No," I reply, smirking. I grab my clothes out of the drawer and slip on my underwear and pants. Once those two important objects are secured on my body, I slip off the gown, making sure to keep my back away from Max, who is probably peeking.

As I grab my shirt, I hear a gasp. I whirl around to see Max turn red and hurriedly cover her eyes again.

"You peeked," I state. It isn't a question. It is an accusation.

"Only then," she mutters, then drops her hand from her face, since I have enough clothes on. "You have so many scars," she says softly.

I feel myself tense. "It happens," I reply, steel in my voice, a memo saying _keep out of this_. Then I pull on my shirt. "I'm leaving."

"You can't just leave!" she exclaims, jumping out of her chair and grabbing my wrist. I flinch from the contact, and she lets go.

"Why not?" I challenge her.

Silence. Then, "The hospital called social services. They have reason to believe you're being abused."

Anger floods my system, and I feel my face harden. My reply comes out icy. "I'm not being abused by my mother."

Lie.

They've probably gone to see Mom. She'll think I ratted on her. She'll get off scot free, because she's really good at lying and convincing others she is a sweet, innocent mother who can't keep her kid from his trouble-seeking behavior, no matter how much it pains her to see me hurt.

Whenever I get home tonight, I'm screwed.

Whatever I've ever felt before, I'm about to feel something that trumps it.

I… I might not live.

I might die.

It's a frightening thought, and I push it from my mind. But knowing your time may be limited makes you want to take chances.

_Well, hello, bad decision. Let's try you out._

I turn toward the window and open it, hearing the alarm go off.

"Fang, we're nine stories off the ground! You can't just jump down!" Max yells over the blare of the alarm.

I look back at her. "I'm screwed anyway, so I might as well do it thoroughly."

"By trying to get killed!" Max screams. "Try to fix it, not take the easy way out!"

She doesn't realize how true her words are to the punishment that's awaiting me.

"There's no way to fix it," I say, climbing onto the window seal.

"FANG!" Max screeched.

"Relax," I say.

_And here comes the bad decision_.

"I have wings."

With that, I whip out my massive black wings as I leap out the window.

I freefall to the count of five before pulling up out of the dive, soaring up above the buildings, and laughing.

I pull out my cell phone, dialing Iggy. Did you know that the best reception is up here?

Try it sometime.

Oh, right, you can't. _Ha_.

That's mean, I know. But really, it is _amazing._

Too bad it's going to end soon.

On the third ring, Iggy picks up. "Hello?" he asks.

"Iggy, it's me," I say. "Keep Angel with you tonight. And maybe the next few nights."

Pause, then, "What happened?"

"Someone called social services," I reply. "There's a chance I might die. Bye."

"Fa –" Iggy starts, but I hang up.

Then I close my eyes and forgot about the world for a little while.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Fire**_** by Augustana.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Semi-chapter seven. It's short, but I don't have time right now. This weekend, though. Most definitely.**

**Disclaimer: You know that I don't own this already, right?**

* * *

_**FPOV**_

It is dusk.

I come home steel-minded.

Mom is home.

She has rice made.

We eat.

I think the food might be poisoned.

I guess not. I'm still aware.

The silence weighs a thousand pounds.

She picks up the plate and puts it in the sink.

_Clink_.

I repeat her motions.

_Clink_.

She turns the sink on. Water runs down.

_Shhhh_.

She tosses a towel at me.

I dry while she washes.

_Scrape scrape scrape._

_Shhhh._

We put the dry dishes away.

_Clink clink clink._

The silence magnifies the sound of time passing.

_Tick tock, tick tock._

We sit down at the table.

Mom looks at me.

And just stares, in silence.

_Tick tock, tick tock._

The silence presses on me from all sides, suffocating me.

What is she going to do?

_Tick tock, tick tock._

I like silence, but I still feel unnerved by the lack of noise.

_Tick tock tick._

The clock falters for a second.

Absolute silence.

Mom smiles.

I freeze.

_Tick._

The clock tries to restart, but it cannot, frozen in this moment.

Like me.

Wait a second…

I realize I don't just _feel_ frozen.

I _am_ frozen. Literally.

My wide-eyed expression stays permanent on my unmoving face.

"Fang," Mom says, still smiling.

A paralytic.

She put a _paralytic_ in my food.

I am so stupid.

But if it is a paralytic, why do I have tunnel vision?

"It's not a paralytic, Fang," she says evenly.

Even though my body cannot show the reaction, my inner conscious screams as the realization dawns on me.

Or rather, sets on me, for tonight will be a dark night.

A very dark night.

Mom laughs.

* * *

**Mini chapter dedicated to **_**Decode**_** by Paramore.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 (a full-length chapter this time, for I have time)!**

**I must warn you, a serious topic is mentioned in this chapter, though details will not be provided extensively. If it upsets you, I'm sorry, but it happens, it's real, and it shapes the story. I, once again, remind you that I no way support this because I talk about it. I tell this to inform you.**

**I do, however, encourage your thoughts on the subject. Review! I didn't think it'd matter, but knowing what readers are thinking really helps me write the story. It gives me inspiration, knowing opinions and beliefs, not just on my writing or my story but even on the topics or situations described within my writing.**

**I'd never thought I'd be one of those writers that do this, but…**

**REVIEW (again)!**

**:D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of Maximum Ride, nor am I James Patterson.**

* * *

_**FPOV**_

Horrified.

That's the emotion running through my mind.

Ashamed.

Small.

Broken.

I feel like insects are running up and down my skin.

I want to scream.

Cry.

Die.

I feel…

It takes a few moments to form the word.

Failure.

I feel like I failed.

I couldn't stop this. I just let her…

No.

There was nothing I could do. She drugged me.

That's why I feel like I failed.

I always believe there is a solution, an escape plan.

But I couldn't find one.

That's why I failed.

I didn't fail Angel; I managed to keep her safe.

I failed myself.

The horrible crawling feeling all over makes me feel diseased, like it's marking what's happened to me.

I lay curled in a ball in the corner of the shower, naked, letting the water pound against my skin. I've showered about five times, trying to wash away the feeling of bugs on my skin. But it's still there, on my skin that's reddened from how raw I've rubbed it.

It won't go away.

I can see the pile of my clothes in the corner, as far away from me as possible. It's like I can see the bugs crawling over them, screaming "_You failed. You let her take control of you. You let her win. You lost. You are a failure. You're a piece of trash, unwanted. No one will want you now, you broken failure."_

I can't tell if I'm finally crying, of if the shower water is running down my face.

It doesn't matter which it is. It doesn't help anything.

She still won.

No, I can't quit. Angel…

I have to let this go, to protect Angel. I may have broken, but I haven't failed in protecting Angel.

I just have to duck tape the pieces of my soul back together and suck it up. For Angel.

For Angel.

I get out of the shower, deciding it's not going to magically wash away at this point. I find some clean clothes, throwing my other clothes in a trash bag. I pull out some dark jeans, my black sneakers, a black long-sleeved shirt to cover the scars.

I stare at my reflection for a moment, then roll up the sleeves, showing my heavy scarring and bruises.

They already know by now. No use in hiding them now.

My overlong hair brushes against my face, tickling it. It reminds me of the crawling feeling over my skin, and I decide it has to go.

I grab scissors from the kitchen and go back to the bathroom. I haphazardly cut my hair shorter, wanting it to not touch my face. I end up with a short, shaggy style. I can see my ears, the back of my neck, my hollow cheeks. I can see how truly sharp my face is, how thin I am from scanty eating so Angel can always have food.

I can see the scars.

I bring the scissors to the last piece of overlong hair, my bangs. But before I cut them, I decide not to, just trimming them jaggedly, letting them swoop across my forehead as they always have. They hide my eyes, helping me keep my emotion hidden. But it also shows my defiance, my refusal to bow to my mom. I can feel the tingling, but I'll stand it and persevere, showing I will survive cause I'm strong.

I'm still fighting. For Angel.

I'll never stop.

My haircut symbolizes that I've been changed. But it shows that I am that much stronger for rising above this event.

I toss the hair in the garbage bag with the clothes and carry it outside. Dumping them onto the ground, I take out a lighter and light the heap on fire. I watch the smoke cloud spiral up, rising up to the sky and disappearing in the air, carrying my grievances on the event with it.

Goodbye.

* * *

Walking down the hallway to my first class, I feel the stares of many.

It must be my scars. They just don't know what to think of someone with that many injuries.

But there is something different in the girls' stares… it's shock, but there is something more to it. I don't know what it is, though.

I sit down in my seat by the window, as usual. I feel the crawling on my skin, and I feel like everyone must see it too, and know what's happened to me, and must believe I am a piece of trash.

I shove the thought from my mind. No, they can't see this. It's just me. Just keep a blank expression.

Max and her posse enter the classroom. Max looks at me briefly, eyes wide. Then, her eyes seem to flash in recognition, and she looks away.

What?

Oh. The wings. I showed them to her. Right.

I wonder if she's told anyone. She probably told her posse. I'm probably going to hear about it in a few seconds.

Her posse of clones is staring at me in bewilderment. It must be the scars.

But when Max Clone 1 speaks, it isn't about my scars.

"Who decided to give you a decent haircut, wimp?"

Okay, _what?_ My _hair_?

I was _not_ expecting that one.

I'm not really in the mood to backtalk, but I do anyway, to keep up appearances. I have to act as if nothing has happened.

"Why? So he can fix _your _hair?"

As predicted, it angers her. However, she doesn't give a comeback, still staring at my hair.

"What? Is there something on my face?" I ask, emotionless, but on the inside uncomfortable with the unusual silence and their continued staring… well, except Max, who keeps sneaking glances at me, but tries to look anywhere but me.

"No…," Max Clone 3 says, slightly spaced, "…you just look…"

"Hot," a voice answers.

I turn my head toward the voice to see a dark-haired girl with blue eyes.

"Jasmine," the girl answers, smiling a pretty smile. Her hair hangs straight around her pale face, and she has dimples. She is…

Pretty.

I give a small, tentative smile, unsure how to respond.

"Thanks?" I say, the question in my voice.

"You're welcome," she replies, laughing.

Her laughter is sweet sounding, and I find myself smiling a little wider, truly…pleased.

"I'm not sure what to say," I admit.

Jasmine chuckles a little. "It's my fault. When you have three older brothers, you tend to get a bit frank with people. I forget not everyone is like that."

She looks down and sees the scars on my hand. "How'd that happen?" she asks innocently.

"Paper cut," I say, a horrible lie, waiting for her to call me out on it like Max usually does.

"Well, you've got some vicious paper. Remind me never to borrow from you," Jasmine responds, joking. "So what's your favorite food?" she asks.

I look in her eyes, studying her. Her eyes show concern, but she truly is willing to let me not tell her the truth and move on.

"What?" she asks.

"You're… not like everyone else," I admit.

She grins hugely. "That's why I'm so cool."

And I laugh.

* * *

Jasmine sits with me in the courtyard during lunch. We just talk, which I surprisingly enjoy. We get a lot of glares from girls. I don't get why, though.

I find out her favorite color is green, she dances, is a horrible runner, couldn't live without strawberries, and wants to be a pilot, because she loves the sky.

She doesn't ask me much, but when she does, I tell her what I can. I tell her my favorite color is actually blue, my little sister is Angel, and I tell her my belief on how the sky is the one place you can let yourself go in.

I don't mention the wings. Or my mom.

We laugh a lot.

The only problem occurs after one of our laughing sessions, when she reaches and grabs my hand. A simple, harmless gesture.

But I'm still twitchy from what Mom did to me, and I spaz, ripping my hand out of hers and practically leaping away from Jasmine.

"Sorry," she says, looking down.

I instantly feel bad, and ashamed. I told myself I was going to get over this, and I leap away from someone just touching my hand? It wasn't her fault I was a freak.

"No, my bad. I'm just touchy," I say, swallowing my feeling of bugs across my skin and taking her hand in mine and squeezing it. She grins, and I find myself giving a small smile in return.

I turn my head back to a forward facing position.

To see Max glaring at me across the courtyard.

As soon as she sees me look, her face is looking elsewhere, instantly striking up a conversation with her clones, trying to remove the expression off her face.

What's _her_ problem?

* * *

I pick up Angel after school. As we are walking back home, I spot Jasmine sitting on a bench in the park. She sees me as well, and gets up, walking over to us.

"Hey, Fang!" she says.

"Fang, who's that?" Angel asks.

"Friend from school. Jasmine," I reply. Then, a moment later, I add, "She's a dancer."

Angel's eyes go wide, and she looks up at Jasmine with the fateful Bambi eyes, asking her to teach her some stuff.

Angel's always wanted to be a ballerina, as most seven-year-olds do, I guess. But unlike other seven-year-olds, she didn't get to take classes because I didn't have the money to put her in classes, what with Mom consuming money for drugs and my minimal wage jobs I get periodically.

Of course, Jasmine complies, because no one can refuse Angel, especially with Bambi eyes.

Her and Jasmine go off to an open area far away, and I see them with my raptor vision (acquired with the wings), but the average human wouldn't see them from the bench where I sat.

"Fang," I hear.

I turn around to see Max standing by the bench, an uncomfortable look on her face.

I raise my eyebrows in question to her appearance.

She rocks her weight back and forth between her legs before saying, "I just wanted to offer… I mean, if you ever need Angel watched again… for –" she pauses, "- work, then I'll watch her."

"…Gazzy likes playing with her," she interjects after a moment of silence.

I pause, studying her face. Finding what appears to be an honest offer, I give her an answer.

"Thanks," I say. "That means a lot."

But I caught the earlier stumble in her words when she said that my conflict was work. She was going to say something else.

She was going to say "_for when you're getting abused"_.

She knows. If not knows, she assumes.

Great. She knows even more of my secrets.

The wings, because I stupidly showed her in my doomsday mindset.

The abuse, from the scars or the doctors' talk of cruelty.

But it gives me somewhere to place Angel if I get caught off guard. Plus, it gives Angel someone to play with her age – it lets her have a friend.

I look away, expecting her to leave now that her obligatory words are finished, but I am surprised when she continues.

"Sorry," she says.

Sorry.

Huh?

"What?" I ask in confusion, bewildered, looking at her.

"I'm sorry for ending our friendship," she says, looking down.

I expect to feel acceptance. I mean, that's what you're supposed to feel when someone apologizes. I could have my friend back.

But instead, I get really, _really_ angry.

"A little late for that," I say coldly, snapping out the words more than I intend.

She continues to stare at her feet. "I know," she replies. "Just thought I should say it."

Then she walked away.

I want to continue glaring away from her, but instead I find my emotions conflicting as I turn my head to follow her departing form.

I still want her friendship.

I'd never wanted us to stop being friends.

But I am so angry that she thought an apology would solve this. And that she just now decided it was worth apologizing.

Because she thinks I am pathetic, now that she knows/assumes I am abused.

A charity case.

I feel the anger grow inside me. I want her to be angry like I was for years.

I think back to lunch, seeing Max glare at Jasmine and I together. If that made Max mad, I am going to make her _furious_.

I am going to make Max see what it's like to want a friend and then be rejected.

Like I felt way back then.

I feel shock run inside me as I realize I wanted _revenge_, because I never thought I'd sink that low.

But didn't I say that I was a new Fang, after last night?

I guess new Fang wants revenge.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Flowers for a Ghost**_** by Thriving Ivory.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello my favorite readers!**

**I apologize for my absence – I unexpectedly got hauled away across a few state borders over the weekend, leaving me with little time and no Internet access. Or computer access of any kind.**

**AKA, no update.**

**I would have written it after, but I've had two projects, two AP class tests, and a literary analysis paper to write.**

**AKA, no time.**

**But here is a small one, to satisfy your thirst (if you have it) and carry you on.**

**I've received the question of whether Fang likes Angel romantically.**

**The Answer: Uh, NO. That relationship creeps me out (but to each his/her own, I guess). When Fang says he loves Angel and fights for her, it's in a protective, father-to-daughter kind of way. He has raised her practically her whole life – he's pretty much like her father. This relationship mirrors the one Max had with Angel at the beginning of the series, before things went screwy with Angel.**

**No screwy Angel here, though.**

**This chapter is going to be more of a look into Fang's past than actual plot progression. It's an insight into how Fang became… well, Fang, in this story.**

**Another thing I noticed was how people didn't really see the touchy subject hinted at in Chapter 8. He was abused, yes, but it was the**_**type**_**of abuse that was touchy. See if you can figure it out with hints from this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing I own. Hail J.P. Chapta 9!**

* * *

_FPOV_

I sit down in second hour English, waiting for the class to start. As usual, I am one of the first people in the room, because I stay out of the way of others.

Of course, the peace can't last.

Enter Max clones 1, 2, 3, and 4.

Oh, and Max. I figured it was implied that she came in also, since Max clones revolve around her, held by some foreign girly gravity I'll never understand.

I don't really want to deal with them today, so I stare at my notebook and try to drown out the world.

However, by focusing on nothing, the bugs-crawling-up-my-skin feeling comes forward ten-fold, causing my mind to flash back to Mom's night of victory.

It is like I could feel her hand everywhere, but I couldn't stop her, couldn't move, couldn't scream and cry and beg her to just beat me like she normally did.

I felt… violated.

And now, I feel like everyone can see that.

But, once again, I remind myself it's just in my mind.

Reluctantly, I refocus on the Max clones conversation.

"Oh look, Fangie is paying attention now," Clone 1 says.

"Isn't that peachy, Clarissa? I mean, he must have _so_ much more interesting things to do – like, get beat up, faint, and be a wuss in general," Clone 3 says.

"That must be, like, _soo_ time consuming," Clone 2 says, snickering cause she thinks she is clever.

I finally speak to them, falling into the game. "Wow. Time consuming. Four syllables total. Big words for you."

"Go to, like, hell!" Clone 2 says angrily.

"I would, but the reservation is under your name. Sorry," I reply.

She screeches angrily and starts to reply what probably would be a lame comeback, but Clone 4 intervenes.

"That's because hell thought your name was a joke. What kind of name is Fang anyway? Sounds like one a little girl might name someone – right before they get hit by a truck and die."

At this I whirl my head around and glare at their group.

Then I focus my glare on Max, accusing her.

She told them.

She _told _them.

She knows how personal that is. I trusted her with that, and she _fucking spilled the beans_.

Now I know why she apologized yesterday – guilty conscience.

But Max has never flinched from my glare. She has always had some impervious shield that protects her from it. She usually glares back – and her glare is pretty wicked, too.

This time she flinches, which confuses me. It's not like she felt too guilty, or she wouldn't have spilled the beans. Something else –

No. I don't care. She is piece of crap, and that's all.

My accusing glare increases.

Her brown eyes open wide, pleading. "Fang, I swear, I didn't –"

"Tell us all your secrets – just most. We pretty much know everything about you, don't we, girls?" Clone 3 finished.

Max's face is one of astonishment. "No, I didn't tell them anything –"

"Stop lying Max. We, like, know this, so you, like, had to have told us," Clone 2 says.

Clone 4 continues, "So how'd it happen? Little Miss Suzy-Q or whatever get on your nerves? Did ya push her into traffic? Did ya bite her with your "fangs", and she ran into traffic, preferring death to you?

"But I forgot – it wasn't your fault, Fangie. She just _skipped_ into the road and you forgot to tell her a truck was about to hit her –"

"SHUT UP!" I scream, furious.

The room falls silent with my outburst.

No one has ever seen me give a reaction. Especially one of this magnitude.

But they don't know – they don't _fucking_ understand anything!

I spit out each word with cold fury in a hushed tone, gradually growing louder till I'm screeching. "You don't even _know_, you crazy bitches! You don't know a damn _thing_ about my life, about what I go through _every single day_! You don't know how it felt to lose her, knowing every day after that you could have saved her, blaming yourself for not protecting her! You'll NEVER KNOW!"

And then I punch Clone 4 in the face.

Her nose gives a very audible crack and faces the right now.

It starts bleeding heavily.

"OW!" Clone 4 hollers, trying frantically to stop the bleeding.

Before the rest can even mutter a sound, I slam Clone 2's head into the desk nearest her, knocking her unconscious. As soon as she starts to slump down to the floor, I roundhouse kick Clone 1's chest, and she goes flying into a wall.

By this point, Clone 3 is standing in utter terror, unable to move.

"I'd start running like hell," I tell her in a deadly tone.

She sprints.

Max is left, staring at me as if she is surprised. But under that look, she holds a concerning gaze.

"Fang," she says quietly, "I didn't tell them. I promise. I don't know how they found out –"

"Max, I really _don't_ _care_ how they found out, from you telling them or from them searching your entire house for a diary, but some way or another, they found out, and –"

"Fang, stop!" she says with more authority. I glare in her direction, daring her to keep going.

Her gaze softens. "I don't care about them right now… or ever again, even. I never realized their bitchiness extended so far."

She walks toward me, and I freeze in place, apprehensive, still furious and bewildered, but shocked and depressed by the memories.

"I care more about you right now. Are you okay?"

My mind is screaming at me. "_Don't let her manipulate you too! She doesn't care! She is a lying, unfaithful bastard!"_

But still, I find myself whispering my true feelings. "No… No…"

I feel a tingling in the corner of my eyes, and my throat feels like it constricted. Sadness swarms my system.

"_Dang it," _I think, "_I'm going to cry. Not here, not now…"_

Max looks over at the few other people in the room. "Out. Now. Distract Mr. Tamor with Clarissa, Jodie, and Kia's injuries. Make sure you take them out and down the hall, though, so he doesn't come in here," she orders them.

They gather the Max Clones and flee, shutting the door behind them.

I go to the window and stare out at the stormy skies, which reflect my mood like a cliché. My thoughts are swirling too fast, filled with memories of that day, of Lily, of the look on her face as she bled on the street…

I hear rather than see Max come over to me. She hugs my shoulders and says, "I'm sorry," saying how she was sorry not only for this moment but the one haunting my thoughts and many more.

I can feel my shoulders shake as the tears finally fall, my emotional barrier broken down by now, as I relive that moment…

* * *

_Lily and I were playing on the sidewalk by Iggy's house. We were playing with Iggy, but he went inside to use the bathroom for a moment._

_Lily was Iggy's neighbor and was my best friend, along with Max and Iggy, of course. I was only 9, and Angel wasn't born yet, Mom wasn't a druggie, and Dad was still alive._

"_Nick, you need a nickname! I mean, we call James Iggy, and you guys call me Lily."_

_Lily's real name was Lucierona Beth, but we called her Lily because of her fascination with the flower. She would take Iggy and me on hunts through the park and through town just looking for them._

"_I have a nickname," I replied. "It's Nick, short for Nicholas."_

"_Not that kinda nickname," Lily whined, "a __**real**__ nickname. One that doesn't refer to your real name but describes who you are."_

_I raised my eyebrows. "What do you have in mind?"_

"_Hm," she said, studying me. After a moment of silence, she said, "Fang."_

"_What?" I asked, bewildered. "How'd you come up with __**that**__?"_

_She gave me a smile. "Well, dogs have fangs, and you're like a dog, with your shaggy hair and everything!"_

_I snorted. "Thanks. I'm going to have a name because I'm canine-like. Great."_

_Then, her expression grew serious. "But like a dog, you're loyal, and lovable, and protective of those you love. You know how to cheer me up when I'm sad or how to make me laugh. You're the perfect companion."_

_I stared at her in wonder, not understanding where such insightful words had come from… but really, really liking the nickname now. Fang._

_It sounded tough, like the kind of name a dark, brooding silent person would have. A name that I was already starting to grow into without realizing it._

_Lily suddenly smiled. "…but mainly because you look like a dog."_

_I grinned and playfully leaped to tackle her, and she nimbly leaped out of the way, shrieking with laughter._

"_Don't! I __**hate**__ it when you tickle me!"_

_I smiled wider. "That's why I must do it. Revenge!"_

_With that, we commenced a chase, running across the yards and sidewalk._

_I got close to her again and lunged, but she narrowly managed to dodge my hands._

"_You'll never catch me, Fang!" she shouted, still laughing._

_She leapt onto the road._

_The truck drifted out of the opposite lane._

"_Li-" I tried to scream._

_The truck hit her as she looked back at me._

_The truck ended up crashing into the mailbox nearby, on the other side of the road._

_Lily lay on the ground, a pool of blood pouring out around her skull, her eyes open wide._

_Still looking in my direction._

"_LILY!" I screamed._

_But the person with said name didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't blink._

_Her eyes just looked at me blankly as she lay dead._

_I don't remember what really happened next. I knew Iggy's mom came out. I think I was hysterically screaming, crying maybe, not realizing she was dead, that it was my fault._

"_You'll never catch me, Fang!"_

"_You'll never catch me!"_

"_Fang!"_

"_Fang…"_

"_Fang…"_

* * *

"Fang!"

I snap out of my reverie, gasping as reality settles around me. I am back in the classroom, staring at the wall, curled down on the floor. Max is squatting next to me, her hand shaking me.

"Huh?" I ask oh so smartly.

"You… were mumbling. 'I couldn't catch you, I couldn't catch you.' You …started screaming. I had to shake you out of it," Max replies softly, looking concerned.

"Sorry," I say, and I quickly wipe the tears of my face, standing up.

Max stands up as well. "You're gonna leave, aren't you?" she asks, knowing the answer.

I give her a curt nod.

"…I'll cover for you," she says, and then walks toward the classroom door. As her hand is about to touch the knob, I speak out without warning.

"I forgive you, Max."

She whirls around, her eyes wide.

I look down, and continue softly. "But that doesn't mean I trust you. It's going to take some time to trust you again."

She nods, her eyes sad. "Okay," she whispers. "Okay."

Then she leaves.

I open the window and leap outside, running. I am not sure where I am going, but I have to leave the school, have to get out.

When my feet finally stop, I see I am at the entrance to the cemetery.

Silently, I travel the familiar path to Lily's small tombstone. I stop in front of it, staring at it.

"I couldn't catch you, Lily. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" I exclaim, choking up on the last part.

But I stop myself from breaking down yet again, and instead say a small prayer. Then, I travel away, not sure where to go, but I do know I am not going back to school.

It doesn't do any good to cry, or scream. They don't stop someone from beating the crap out of you. They don't stop your best friend from dying. They don't bring that friend back to life.

Action does.

So I walk away, leaving behind the memories, the hurt, and the blame.

I take only the fact that my name is Fang.

Because that's what Lily wanted.

And I owe her that much.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Details in the Fabric (feat. James Morrison) **_**by Jason Mraz.**

**I know I kind of ventured off from the revenge idea, but this idea popped into my head. Not to mention, people always give reasons why Fang is called Fang, and they usually revolve around him liking vampires or having a biting fetish when he was little. I mean, they're OK ideas, but I believed, knowing Fang's deep character, that the meaning behind it is more significant. More meaningful, to be redundant. Plus, this really explains Fang's character in this story, and I even added some plot progression after all, between him and Max.**

**Not to worry – Jasmine isn't going away quite yet. I have more in store.**

**R&R?**

**The button is lonely. Just tickle him. Down there.**

keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing  
keepgoingkeepgoing  
keepgoing

...  
..

There!


	10. Chapter 10

**Welcome, readers!**

**I'm updating sooner than usual – what with an unexpectedly freer weekend, and the last chapter being posted at the beginning of the weekend.**

**Unfortunately, the next update will not occur till next weekend – my schedule blocks me, and not writers block this time.**

**I can't guarantee a long or short chapter – I don't really know what I'm going to write about exactly right now. But by the end I will (well – duh).**

**Chapter 10!**

**Disclaimer: This is getting old. If you don't believe I am not James Patterson and I don't own Maximum Ride or any of the characters, I don't know how to convince you otherwise now.**

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_FPOV_

I haven't seen Mom since she last… abused me. In the different way.

That scares the crap out of me.

I mean, if she is gone a few days, that is pretty normal. She often hangs out at bars, spends the night with a friend (which I don't understand how she has any), and then returns to work.

Being gone over a week – it screams danger.

I don't really know when she will come home, which means I don't know when I'll have to cart Angel over to Iggy or Max's for protection.

Also, the more she's gone, the more creative her punishments become.

This is bad-news-bears for me.

Because I'm so antsy, I plan on asking Max if she can watch Angel for tonight…only because Iggy can't stay home tonight. He has to work.

I don't really want to ask Max – I know I forgave her and everything, but I fail to fully trust her yet. Not to mention the embarrassing scene where she witnessed my unconventional break-down.

Talk about awkward tension.

Time comes for lunch – and this might be one of few times when I am completely uninjured. I grab lunch and sit outside, in the courtyard – though it is chilly outside, I still prefer open spaces to crowded, people-populated, sardine-can lunch rooms.

I am the only one outside. The sky is a dull shade of gray, foreshadowing a stormy night. The wind that blows is chilly, raising goose bumps on my arms as it tosses around my short hair. I set my lunch of an apple and a bottle of water down on the ground beside me, then proceed to lie down on the ground, staring at the dark clouds with my dark eyes.

Lying in the grass, alone, I can let my mind worry over what may happen, what has happened, and how I can handle them.

I hear footsteps, announcing the arrival of another human being. I turn my head sideways to see a pair of small, sneaker clad feet and two legs covered in jeans.

"Yo, Max," I say, knowing it's her.

"Hi, Fang," she says softly. "Can I sit here?"

I look back up at the sky. "Why not?"

She sits down, a seemingly small action, but in reality, it's huge.

It's not that she chose to sit with me.

It's that she chose to not sit with her clones.

She's proving that I can trust her, that she is done with betraying me by associating with people set on verbally mocking me.

I know it. She knows it.

I hear a wrapper being opened. I look over at Max to see a bacon sandwich in her hand, the steam rising from it into the cold air.

My mouth is practically watering from yearning – I can't afford a large lunch. In fact, I steal food from kids' plates for my lunch most days.

However, I nonchalantly look away, acting as if my stomach isn't trying to eat its way out of my abdomen for a bite of that food.

I hear her bite and chew for a moment, then swallow loudly. If one thing about Max hasn't changed, it's this: that girl can eat, and eat loudly.

I feel her gaze more than see it. I turn my head once again to see her staring at my abdomen-chest region.

"Are you having a nice conversation with my abdomen?" I ask her, chuckling slightly.

Her face becomes overwhelmed in a brilliant blush, then stutters out, "NO! I'm not talking to your abdomen!"

I look at her face, smirking, silently laughing at her. "Oh, really? That's not what my abdomen tells me."

She blushes further, then speaks. "It's just, with all the layers you used to wear to hide your scars, I never noticed how _skinny_ you were."

I look at her with a steady, blank stare. "Money's tight," I say, revealing nothing.

Max sighs. "Angel's not as skinny as you," she says.

She's observant. More than I gave her credit for. "Just because money's tight doesn't mean Angel can't eat normal meals," I say.

Her brows crease, and her mouth falls into a grimace. "And you can't? Fang, if you don't take care of yourself, you won't be able to take care of Angel."

"I seem to be doing okay right now."

"Fang, you need someone to take care of you… someone to help you out…"

"That didn't seem to matter for the past five years."

I know this is cold, but I don't want to be a charity case. I don't need her help. I am strong enough to protect Angel and get by – _alone_.

Max's eyes are filled with sadness. "I thought you forgave me," she says.

I stare deep into her warm, brown eyes. "I did; that doesn't mean the past didn't happen."

I look away for a moment, my thoughts tumbling around in my head. Finally, I sigh, letting out my minor anger, and I look back at Max, ready to relent some.

"Look – I'll let you help. I need you to watch Angel tonight. Not overnight – just till later in the evening. I'll give Angel a call when she can come home. I – I have to work late."

Lie.

By the look in Max's eyes, she knows it too.

"That's fine," she says. "Whatever you need."

Another plea for trust. Another reassurance that she is done betraying me.

Silence fills the air. I look back at the sky, trying to distract my mind from the future pain I envision.

Max resumes eating. Once she is done, she seems to snap from the silence.

"Fang – you don't have to lie to me. I know, okay? More than anyone else really does. And I know that you don't trust me for what I've done, but I'm done with that, ok? You're going to have to trust me on that, because you have already entrusted me with your biggest secrets, willingly or not. I know why you really want me to watch Angel – you work, but you're not working late. I _know_. Why are you trying to shut me out?"

I sit up quickly and glare at her. She fidgets under my glare, but matches it with her determined stare.

"Why am I shutting you out?" I ask, deadly quiet. Her gaze doesn't waver. "Because no one is stupid enough to just do the same thing twice if the first time around everything went horribly wrong."

"Fang," Max says softly, her eyes softening. "I can't make you trust me – you have to try."

I look away, but she reaches her hand up to my face and turns it back to face her. "Can you try to trust me, Fang? Can you let me try to redeem myself?"

Her gaze is bearing down onto mine, and it seems like she is looking at my soul. I feel so exposed, like she is seeing all my fear, distrust, doubts, and worry that I keep well hidden. I utter my answer without thinking, hypnotized by the stare.

"Yes."

Her hand remains on my face after that, longer than necessary. I can't tear my gaze from hers, and her touch is placing a weird sensation throughout my limbs. I don't know what to think – but I don't think I want it to stop.

"Hey, Fang."

With those words, I am able to break Max's touch and gaze to whip my head around and see Jasmine.

She squats down to my level and slings her arms around my lanky form, like an embrace. She leans down and plants a kiss on my cheek. I can feel the slight blush rise to my face.

Embarrassingly enough, I've never been kissed – anywhere – by a girl before. And for some reason, Jasmine doing this, in front of Max – I feel embarrassed.

Jasmine looks at Max.

Max looks away, red.

What's up with that?

"Hi, Max," Jasmine says politely.

"Jasmine," Max replies curtly.

"Just wanted to say hi. I've got to run. Got to be early for my chem lab."

With that, she rises, her fingers running along my shoulders longer than necessary. I don't really notice.

"Bye Fang."

"Adios," I say.

As soon as Jasmine is out of sight, Max looks at me with a serious expression.

"Do you really plan on continuing that – do you plan on telling her your secrets? Are you just going to tell all your secrets to everyone now?"

I give her a cold look. "It's not your business who I see."

She returns my look, standing up. "No, but if you won't tell me your secrets, why does she get to know them?"

Max leaves, and I am more confused than ever.

* * *

I arrive home, Angel safely on her way to Max's house.

I open the door and enter, pulling out my keys and putting them in my pocket.

I sling my backpack onto the kitchen counter.

The lights turn out.

"Hello, Fangie."

I freeze.

Fear courses through my system.

"Mom," I reply.

"You betrayed me, Fangie. You tried to tell our little secret. Now you'll pay."

I turn toward her voice, invisible in the darkness. "I don't think so."

The lights turn on above the living room. Only now, there is no couch, no antique TV. Only a cold, steel table, with restraints, plugged into a black box.

Mom remains invisible.

"Oh, you will."

Searing pain spikes up through my back as a blade is shoved into it.

I can feel the blood leaking out my back as the knife stays there, Mom holding it there with vengeance, laughing maniacally.

She's not drunk.

She's angry.

Mom starts slowly dragging the knife upward. I leap away, and she loses her grip, but I almost faint from the agony.

I hear her _tsk, tsk, tsk._ "That won't do, boy. Not. At. All."

She leaps at me, ready to punch. I deflect her, and aim a punch at her face. She deflects mine, but I don't stop there, swinging my leg to slam my foot into her kneecap.

I hear it crack.

She doesn't wince, or collapse, or anything I expected.

She stands there and _smiles_.

"I dosed myself with an experimental chemical that will alleviate pain and strengthen the body, as well as immediately repairing any damage done. Can your body do that?"

She moves with inhuman speed, pinning me to the steel table on my stomach. The restraints fly to my ankles and wrists automatically, probably set to restrain whatever landed on its surface.

"Been tampering with DNA again, Mom?" I ask her, ice in my voice.

"Only to test it on you. Ready?"

"Let's see if I can make you disappear from my life finally… by making you invisible."

My eyes widen, but I don't make a sound or move a muscle. The blood I'm losing is already making me dizzy, and I'm fighting consciousness against the pain.

She walks over to the black box and flips the switch that says OFF to ON.

"This box delivers a shock to your central nervous system. But, it is so strong that, if it works, will overcome your system and leap into your other cells. It will destroy your pigmentation, and it will hinder their ability to reflect light, resulting in invisibility – well, except in complete darkness. But if you're in that, then you're pretty much invisible anyway."

She fingers a dial that has three colors around it: green, yellow, and red.

"I wonder how many shocks it will take for you to disappear from my life."

I finally squirm, straining against the holds, but they're strong.

"I'm impatient, though. I wonder if I raise the amount if it will happen faster."

She turns the dial all the way up to the last of the red.

"Bye bye, Fangie."

She hits a round black button.

Lightning cracks outside.

Lightning then lights up inside me.

It leaves, and I lie in black agony, on the bridge of unconsciousness.

"You're still here."

The button is pressed again.

Lightning roars inside me.

I scream this time. My body is on fire. I feel all my limbs flailing and burning, but I'm not longer inside them. I'm out of it, watching my body fry, feeling the phantom pain, knowing my life is slipping away.

Phantom Me sees the front door open.

"_I thought I locked the door,"_ I think.

The person standing there is not moving. "_Smart,_" I think.

The button is pressed once more, not let up for a while.

Phantom Me can't see my body anymore.

I fly back into my body, screaming inside as my useless body suffers. The lights rapidly change colors, shaping images faster than my mind can comprehend, forming from the former darkness for a second.

Then, all goes dark.

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**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Anthem of the Angels **_**by Breaking Benjamin. The video, created by vouchsafing838 on YouTube is really moving, even if you haven't seen **_**Raise Your Voice **_**(which I haven't). Check it out.**

**See you next weekend (hopefully).**

**R&R**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11!**

**I do bear bad news – this will probably be the only update this weekend. And this chapter will probably be kinda short. I have a TON of long A.P. History writing to do, and little time to do it. I am currently taking a break from the monotony to write this.**

**So, sorry. Lo siento.**

**I am here to calm your probably anxious spirits with a continuation from Ch.10.**

**Disclaimer: so pointless. Really. After 10 chapters of me claiming I am not JP, did I suddenly have a change of mind and decide I **_**am**_** JP? No. So I still am not JP, and I still don't own Maximum Ride, or any of the characters, and I don't plan on trying to (who wants to deal with the US Legal System? Not I)**

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_FPOV_

Pain.

Immobility.

_Fear_.

All these emotions, feelings, coursing through me.

I can't remember how I got here, but I know I hurt.

**Really** badly.

I open my eyes, and see my bedroom walls around me. The black marker drawings pop out from the white wall, overwhelming me for a moment. I close my eyes, reassuring myself, then slowly opening my eyes again, letting the walls fade into the distance.

I rubbed the unconsciousness out of my eyes, trying to wake up to face a new day.

Then I stare at my hand… or rather, where my hand _should_ be.

It's not there. I mean, it's there… I just can't … I just can't….

Last night's events fly into my mind ten-fold, and realization dawns on me.

I'm invisible.

Mom did it.

Oh, _God_.

Then, suddenly, I see my hand. It's there, tan as ever, sitting in front my face.

"Ah!" I yell in shock, leaping away as if I can leave my hand and hide from the insanity of this.

Of course, my hand just follows me on my journey off the bed and onto the floor with an _oof_.

"AH!" another voice screams. I freeze from my collapsed position on the ground.

"Oh, hi Fang. You scared me."

I slowly turn my head to face the voice, incredulous.

"I can see you now. You kept disappearing and coming back in your sleep."

No. No. _No._

"Angel?" I ask, shocked to see her here.

Then – boom. Flashback to last night.

Mom conducting her cruel, hate-fueled experiment.

The door I thought I had locked being opened.

The person standing there, frozen.

No, not _Angel_. _Not her._ She _couldn't_ be there… if she was there…

No… I did so much, she was never to know…

"Angel," I say again, anguished and quiet this time, conveying all I felt and knew now.

She was there.

I had locked the door – but Angel has a key.

Why was she there? She was supposed to be with Max!

Oh, _God_.

"Fang," Angel says quietly. "Mommy hurt you."

I sit still, looking at the floor, unable to see her eyes, face the failure of my actions.

I tried to stop her from fearing.

But it was all for nothing.

How was I so careless?

"Fang," Angel asks again, her voice full of tears that break my heart. "Why did Mommy hurt you?"

I stare at my hands still, and they flash invisible for a few seconds, then return to normal. My vision becomes obscured by tears forming at my eyes.

She shouldn't know.

We shouldn't be having this talk.

I failed.

My cover's been blown, and her life has been pulled from the happy world I fought so hard for her to have.

"Angel, why were you here last night?" I ask, avoiding her question, wanting to see if there was any possibility I am wrong, that she didn't see and it was Max or Iggy or anyone that told her a half-truth of the situation.

I was hoping for a "what? I wasn't here last night, but eventually Max brought me in and I slept with you because I was worried."

Instead, I got the other answer.

"Max drove me here. I had left Celeste, and I can't sleep without her. I told her I would just run in and right back out. So I unlocked the door… and you were screaming, and Mommy was laughing, and there was red everywhere, which Max told me was blood – Fang, why did Mommy hurt you? Is it because I wasn't there? Am I a bad girl?" Angle exclaimed, sobbing now.

The tears unlock my frozen limbs and I grab her and pull her into my arms, keeping a tight hug around her, wanting to cry as well.

She blamed herself…that silly, angel of a girl blamed _herself._

This is all my fault, all my fault…

"Angel, it was _never_, is _not_, and _never_ _will be your fault_! It's my fault! _Never _blame yourself because I'm not good enough! _Never_! " I say with force, determined to remove all her doubts.

I pull her chin up and look her dead in the eyes and let my emotions swim freely so she can see the truth I'm preaching to her.

"Do you understand?" I ask her.

She nods her head, tears brimming in her eyes, and she hiccups a sob.

I pull her back into my chest and rub her back as she cries, saying reassuring words.

Finally, the sobs quiet, and Angel lies in my arms, heavily breathing. I rub her back in slow motions, never letting her go, showing I will never leave her unsupported.

"Fang?" Angel sniffs out.

"Yeah, Ange?" I ask.

Her face lies sideways on my now wet t-shirt, looking at the wall. "Why aren't you good enough?"

I stare away, feeling the deep sorrow emerge from years past. That's the question. I never knew why Mom started abusing me. I knew she was upset. But I didn't understand why she hated _me_ so much.

"I don't know," I whisper truthfully.

Angel turns her head to look up at me. "Well, I think you're the _best_ big brother in the world. You're like a daddy to me."

I feel the tears, which have remained brimmed on my eyes, finally fall down my face.

God, how I'd get so lucky.

"I love you, Ange." I say shakily.

What isn't spoken is my renewed promise to her.

I have failed, but I never will fail you again, Angel.

I promise.

"Forever?" Angel asks, smiling.

I give her her special smile. "Forever."

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**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Far From Home**_** by Five Finger Death Punch.**

**R&R?**

**The button (nameless at the moment) likes to be tickled, wants a name, and likes to hear comments about the story.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello, readers!**

**Sorry for the late update – I've had a busy weekend, and today, my ONE free day – I spent half of it by a toilet, feeling nauseous.**

**But some sleep and meds later, here I am! Ready to give another chapter.**

**Chapter 12.**

**Disclaimer: See previous chapters. I'm too lazy to type this today. Still don't own Maximum Ride.**

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_FPOV_

I just sit there, holding Angel, trying to wrap my mind around the situation.

And occasionally going invisible, without any control.

I am not sure how I am going to go to school, or anyway, when I randomly disappear.

I guess I'll have to try to learn to control it. There may be no way I can, but I can try.

Like with Angel. A while ago, I had subconsciously accepted that Angel knowing the ugly truth of my abuse would eventually happen. Yet… I wish it wouldn't have happened now.

She's so young.

7-year-olds shouldn't have to fear for their lives on a daily basis, or wonder if their brother is going to be whole the next morning.

7-year-olds shouldn't have to fear their mothers.

I hear the bedroom door open. Out of instinct, my hold on Angel tightens protectively, ready to defend her from whatever menace lies beyond the doorway.

"Angel, breakfast is ready – or as ready as it'll ever be, with my cooking skills –"

I lift my head at the recognition of Max's voice.

Then I realize how open I was just being, and the tears running down my face.

Although alright around Angel, the embarrassment of no longer being stone-faced Fang around Max rises.

Angel giggles. "Fang, you just disappeared, but your cheeks feel warm."

Although no one can see it, I roll my eyes.

7-year-olds also blab more than they should sometimes.

I let go of Angel, and she crawls out of lap.

I take advantage of my free hands and invisibility to wipe the water off my face.

Angel looks at Max, giving her a sweet smile. "So, it's cereal, right?"

Max grins larger, unable to resist Angel's pleasant nature. "You know I can burn toast – what else would it be?"

Angel starts to leave. I stand up and stretch my arms over my head, sore from my awkward sleep.

Then I hiss in pain as something in my lower back pulls.

I fall back to the ground, contracting, trying to stop the pain.

I become visible again, for I can see my knees as I am curled in the fetal position.

"Fang!" I hear Max cry.

Angel tries to enter the room, but Max stops her.

"He's just re-opened his stitches, Angel. Go eat. I just need to re-sew them."

Angel stares at her for a moment, contemplating, trying to decipher how dire the situation is. Deciding it was alright, she nods, then heads to the kitchen.

Max walks to the corner of the room, where she apparently has moved the first-aid kit, then walks over to me.

"Take off your shirt, idiot. You tore the wonderful stitches I made," Max demands loudly.

"I'm a freak, not deaf," I say. I reach to the hem of my shirt and try to lift it over my head.

However, it hurts to pull my arms up that way, and I stop, clenching my jaw.

Max's expression softens, and I look away, ashamed at my weakness in front of her. This seems to be happening more and more recently.

"Lift up your arms," Max says softly. I do as I'm asked, and she gently lifts the shirt off my body. Her fingertips linger on my bare shoulders longer than they should, and weird tingling course through my body.

She opens the first aid kit. "Put your back to me."

I turn away from her, and she wipes something cool on my lower back.

It is silent for a moment, then Max starts talking.

"The knife was in there pretty deep. You're lucky nothing major was hurt, and that you seem to heal abnormally fast, or I may never have gotten it shut without a lot of blood loss," she says.

The coolness goes away, then I feel stinging. Rubbing alcohol.

Silence for a while.

Then I talk.

"Why did you bring her here? Couldn't you get her to settle with another bear or doll or something?"

Max gives a soft laugh. "For looking and acting so sweet, she is pretty manipulative. It's like she controlled my mind. I couldn't refuse her."

Silence. Then, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought her here. It's my fault she knows."

I tense. Then I reply. "I don't blame you, Max."

Her hand stops on my back. "What?" she asks incredulously.

I continue, looking straight ahead. "It's my fault. It's my responsibility to protect Angel, and I failed. You should have brought her to a fight that was finished… not one that I was losing."

I pause to take a breath, then finish. "I wasn't strong enough."

Silence. Max starts sewing the skin back together, with short pricks of pain.

"I used to think you weren't strong enough. You were gone so much, you couldn't protect me. You never saw it, but your presence was the only thing stopping me from being bullied at school. But when you started disappearing for days – which I now know, was because you were being attacked by your mom. When you were gone, people started bullying me. Those girls, those girls I thought were my friends, started telling me you were getting beat up for being a wimp. At what evidence did I have contrary, with you coming to school busted up without any explanation? You wouldn't say anything when I asked. I assumed you were too proud to admit you lost at something. But those girls gave me protection. They beat up other people, and that was safety. I used to only hang with them when you were gone… but eventually, they demanded that I stop dilly-dallying with a wimp like you. So I slowly abandoned you. I still liked you, Fang, but I wanted to be accepted. To feel safe."

Max stops, and I can hear the raggedness in it.

She continues.

"That day, the day when the gang beat you up, I was waiting for you to prove all my doubts wrong. I knew subconsciously that this was an unfair fight, with four against one, but I wanted you to come out and win, like the superman image I associated with you. But you didn't, and when the girls asked me to punch you, I was so angry, so angry that you weren't the superman I thought you were, that I complied."

I hear Max sniff. I think she's crying.

"But I was so wrong, Fang. God, I was so wrong. You were being superman, taking crap from your own _mother_ and protecting your sister and dealing with school, afraid to say anything about what was really happening. You were afraid to tell, threatened by your mom. I was an idiot."

Max places a bandage over the sewn area.

"Here you were, suffering, and I was too high and mighty to notice, only caring about myself. God, I'm so sorry, Fang. I get why you'd hate me. I was horrible. I could have helped you, but instead, I let you get all these scars…"

Max's fingers are trailing over my back, tracing the many scars accumulated from years and years of abuse. My insides to turn to goo, because for some reason, it feels so _good_, and I don't know why.

"Fang," Max says, sorrow in her voice.

"No, Max, it's not all your fault," I say, wanting deep in my soul to do anything to stop the tears I can't see. "I'm to blame too. I should have told you. You were my best friend."

I turn myself around, hoping I'm still visible, and turn her head to face me with my hand.

"I really do forgive you, Max, for what you did. We were both to blame." I stop, trying to find the words. "I don't fully trust you, but I am starting to."

I take a deep breath, and Max pleads me to continue with her beautiful eyes.

Wait, what?

"Can we try to be friends? Again?" I finally spit out, feeling nervous all of the sudden, working to keep a calm mask on my face while searching her face for reactions.

Her face breaks into a smile. "I'd like that."

We sit there for a few seconds, with my hand on her cheek and her fingers trailing my shoulders.

Then, I break the gaze, realizing how awkward I feel. I stand up and start for the door.

"Where are you going?" Max asks.

I turn to face her again, standing in the doorway. "I am going to make Angel a real breakfast. I forgot how bad a cook you are. How could I have ever left my sister with such a terminator of food?"

I smirk, laughing as Max's face falls into a menacing glare.

"Jerk," she says.

I laugh harder, and Max gets up, smacking my shoulder with my t-shirt.

"Put your shirt back on, jerk-face," Max mutters.

I give her a profound smirk, and jokingly say, "Why? Don't you enjoy the view?"

She scowls, and I turn away, chuckling softly.

I am not meant to hear what she says next, but with the enhanced bird-kid hearing Max doesn't know about, I do.

"More than you know," Max says under her breath. "More than you know."

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Storm **_**by Lifehouse.**

**R&R?**

**I'm down to three names for the button (Herald, Pip, or Johnny), so state your choice and state your opinion of the chapter! Because Herald/Pip/Johnny enjoys people's thoughts!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13!**

**Here it is, as promised (if only a little late tonight)!**

**I even wrote this out partially with paper and pencil – something I've never done. But I needed to write down the sudden idea I had.**

**I might just write two chapters tonight – I really want to include this one idea, but I can't just group too much in a chapter. But we'll see how it plays out time-wise.**

**Thank you so much for all the ideas! I am presenting the most wanted idea first, but I created a compromise that I hope is exciting.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride or any of the characters, nor do I own any other reference I make.**

**

* * *

**

_FPOV_

Being with Max and Angel seemed to undermine my logic about society's reaction to my invisibility.

I forgot that they really were the only people who knew my mutant secrets, so when the time for school came around…

I realized I had no plan for hiding my random invisible outbursts.

So, I am basically winging it, no pun intended.

I am focusing intently on remaining visible, visualizing my body sitting amongst my classmates in plain sight.

It seems to be working.

Wonder how long it'll last.

I get the answer in third hour math. I slip up.

The teacher is looking for an answer to a question I haven't heard because I'm not paying attention (what with the trying to not randomly disappear from view, _trying_ to keep the illusion that I am somewhat normal).

I prayed Mr. Connors would not call on me, hoping I could just disappear so he won't see me.

Of course, I don't realize that I _can freaking do that now_, and I turn invisible.

The kid behind me is falling asleep, but I definitely shock him awake as my body no longer resides in front of him.

Well, technically it is, just not to the naked eye.

Anyway.

I'm only invisible for a few seconds before I catch myself and right the situation – which, of course, only freaks the kid out more.

"Dude, where the hell'd ya go? Ya just disappeared!" the kid whisper-shouts in a poorly concealed terrified tone.

I cock my eyebrow, as if to say, '_What? Me? Disappearing? Are you high?'_

"Use NyQuil," I reply quietly, implying his sleep deprivation is causing him to hallucinate.

"I swear I-," the kid starts, but he is interrupted by the teacher, Mr. Connors.

"Kyle, do you have something you'd like to share with the class?" Mr. Connors asks in that condescending, BA, _you-are-so-busted_ tone that teachers possess and perfect.

"Ah -," the kid, Kyle apparently, begins, but shuts his mouth.

He realizes that if he blurts out what he thinks he saw, it will seem as if he is delusional, since I am plainly visible.

A resigned expression falls across his face, accepting he probably is sleep deprived and hallucinating. "Nothing," he finishes.

"Well, I'd like you to share the answer to number 13 with the class, if you would," Mr. Connors replies, practically smirking as the kid's ears grow red as he scrambles to find the problem.

Teachers get an A for the day for saving my hide.

As soon as Mr. Connors begins to lecture again, Kyle whispers, "How much does NyQuil cost?"

"Five bucks," I say, pulling the number from the top of my head.

Is it a lie?

Yes.

Do I care?

No.

How the heck am I supposed to know how much NyQuil costs?

* * *

Lunch is almost like a relief, for I can just hide up in a tree and let my mind relax, my invisibility doing whatever it wants.

I admit ashamedly that I do drop random stuff on people's heads while invisible, just to freak them out.

Might as well enjoy myself, if I'm going to be even more freaky.

I can feel you judging from here – and in my defense, I had a screwed up childhood.

Let me enjoy my lame, mundane fun.

I drop an apple from the branches, seeing a person crossing under the tree, only to see it land on the head of a black-haired girl.

Jasmine.

I instantly feel guilty, even though she doesn't see it's me who did it, because she is one of… maybe three people who treat me with some respect and friendliness.

Also, I haven't really been hanging around with her – I'm not exactly sure what we are, but there is a hint of commitment in it, and I'm not upholding my end.

I hop down from the branches, focusing on becoming visible as I leave the cover of the leaves. I land on the balls of my feet and catch up to her quickly, taking long, fast strides.

"Yo," I say quietly.

Jasmine whirls around, stopping her walk. A smile falls onto her face as she puts the voice with my face.

"Hey, Fang," she says. "How have you been?"

"As I always am," I reply vaguely, now releasing any details about my life. "You?"

"Good, but better now that you're here," she states, taking my hand in hers and pulling me to a more public spot of the courtyard, in a corner of the school walls.

Instantly, the claustrophobia creeps up on me.

I'm not sure whether this is from the having wings and craving open spaces or a fear of no escape if cornered, due to my years of abuse.

Either way, the feeling comes upon me, though I don't let my mental freak-out show on my face or my actions.

I try to stay focused on staying visible.

"Fang," Jasmine says, pulling me from my thoughts. I turn my head to focus on her. "Why have you been so distant lately?" As if to protest the distance, she steps closer, further cornering me.

My mental stress level goes up even further.

The conversation with Max a few nights ago replays, a conversation where I got mad at her because it seemed like she was trying to get me to break up with Jasmine.

"_You can't tell her your secrets – what can ever blossom between you two?" Max questions, washing dishes beside me._

"_I can tell her," I say coldly._

"_But you won't," Max points out._

"_Does it matter? People keep secrets," I say._

"_Not secrets like that – your secrets are kinda a big deal, Fang," Max replies._

"_What is it with you and always demoting Jasmine? Something's always wrong with her. What do you want me to do? Cause I can't tell," I say, slightly more venomous than I intended._

_Max hides her face behind her hair. "Nothing. Whatever you do, I don't care," she says._

_Silence fell awkwardly between us as we finished the dishes._

But Max was right.

I wouldn't tell Jasmine the real crap about my life.

I don't trust her.

I like her.

Doesn't mean I trust her farther than Angel can throw her.

Angel, for I could toss Jasmine far – not that I want to do that, just that I could, though if presented with the option –

I'll just shut up now.

I come up with a lie. "Family problems," I say. This is a sort-of truth, after all.

However, I took a moment too long to answer the question, and Jasmine catches the lie. Suspicion falls into her eyes.

"Liar," she says. "What's really wrong?"

"Nothing. Just busy," I continue smoothly, lying through my teeth easily, while looking past her to see if there is any way to get out of this situation, or even this _corner_.

"Fang," she breathes, moving so she is just an inch from me. "Can't you tell me?"

She places a whisper of a kiss on my lips, and once again I am embarrassed by the publicity of all this.

She pushes me so my back is now against the wall, and I have no space to move. My breathing hitches up from the claustrophobia swarming through my body, though Jasmine misinterprets that as effective of her kiss.

"Can't you?" She whispers.

"No," I choke out, surprised by the fact that I can't seem to control this irrational fear. It wasn't like Jasmine was going to kidnap me.

She remains oblivious to my freaking out and presses her closer, pushing her lips onto mine in a heavier kiss.

It's too much, too fast, this kissing. I'm not comfortable with simple kisses, nonetheless this pre-making out stuff, and the walls seem to be closing in on me. I'm feeling dizzy, and I can't seem to breathe.

I gain enough of my bearings to finally shove Jasmine away, leaping away from the wall into the openness of the courtyard.

"What the hell, Fang!" Jasmine exclaims, angry.

I find this odd, because you'd think she'd be more sad that I was rejecting her, not angry.

She continues.

"What is your problem? He was looking! This won't work –"

She stops, realizing what she said.

I freeze, still facing away from her toward the open courtyard, and I tilt my head slightly to face her, stone faced.

"_He_?" I ask in a blank tone, though it gives the desired effect. Fear enters her features.

"No, I didn't mean to say that, my words can out jumbled –"

"Then _who_ was looking?" I say, no emotion in my voice, scaring her further.

She remains silent.

I walk away, simmering behind my emotionless mask.

She was using me to make someone else jealous.

"Fang, don't you dare judge me!" she calls after me. I stop and face her, cocking an eyebrow.

Seeing she has captured my attention, she continues. "You were doing the same thing!"

I can't keep the incredulously, furious tone out of my voice completely. "_What?_!"

Her face becomes determined. "I see the looks you give Max. We had common goals."

I am flabbergasted, confounded, bamboozled… every incredulous word, I am that.

"I wasn't using you to get _Max_ to like me!" I exclaim. "Up until a little while ago, I hated her guts! Why the _hell_ would I be trying to seduce her by making her jealous?"

Jasmine's face blanches as she realizes her error. "But, I thought –"

"Shut up, Jasmine," I say coldly.

Her face displays the hurt. "This wasn't how I wanted this to end. I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't think I would, since I thought you were using me too."

"But you did," I say, "and we're over." I walk a few feet, then stop and face her again.

"How do you like them apples?" I say, referring to the apple that landed on her head, though she doesn't know I did that, then walk away, leaving her in misery and confusion.

All I know is that I can barely focus past my anger, and I need to get out of here before I randomly become invisibly during class again.

I start to leave the courtyard, heading for the parking lot of the school. I'm not worried anyone will notice, because no one really cares.

On my way out, Max catches my eye, and she can see the fury in them as I storm my way across the lawn.

"_Fang_," she mouths across the courtyard, asking me to explain what's wrong.

I know it is just misplaced aggression, but I ignore her and take off into the city.

* * *

I find myself stopping around the park, strolling silently down the sidewalks, deep in thought.

Now the initial anger has subsided, I find that I am actually feeling wounded, hurt that I was just a tool.

"_It's not like we were really that close, anyway,_" I argue with myself. "_Max was right – I wasn't willing to tell her my secrets_."

"_But you thought she actually liked you – no one's really seemed to like you like that," _the other side of my conscious argued. "_You hate that that feeling of affection was just an illusion_."

I wish my mind would just shut up, but my thoughts continue to spin like a carousel, rotating around the small emptiness I feel around my chest.

I don't try to focus on my invisibility – I don't really care who notices at this point. It's not like people in the city actually pay attention to you anyway.

I turn left, just cause, and I find the park disappearing behind me as I continue down the sidewalk. The buildings seem a little more worn, the allies a little more dirty.

I realize I've never been here before.

I stop, and I am about to turn around when a voice calls from the darkness.

"I thought I got rid of you."

Ice seems to flow through my veins as I recognize the owner of the voice.

"But it seems you're still here. Hm."

I turn to my left, peering into the dark ally, and the face of my mother appears. Her hair is in a tight bun, her glasses on her face, and she is wearing her spotlessly white laboratory coat.

Her eyebrows are creased, as if this is a troublesome problem she doesn't know the solution to.

My mind is going "_Run, moron, run!"_

But my feet are frozen.

Mom gets a smile on her face. "Guess you're coming with me."

And then she leaps at me, grabbing my forearm.

This snaps me out of my paralysis, and I don't waste any time socking her with a right hook to the face.

She curses as she tries to kick my kneecaps, but I dodge to the side and roundhouse kick her with my left leg. She flinches, letting go of my arm infinitesimally, but it's enough for me to break my arm free of her grip.

We parry each other for a bit, dodging each others' blows, till I take a risk and try to dislocate her shoulder.

I succeed, but my hand is no longer there to protect my face from the punch Mom swung.

It hurts like heck, and I can feel some blood run down my face from where Mom's ring cut my face.

But Mom becomes distracted with her dislocated shoulder, and I turn around and flee as fast as I can.

All too quickly I hear Mom start to pursue, her feet hitting the ground with inhuman speed.

Yep, she's definitely been experimenting on herself.

I speed up to my full-blast super-bird-kid speed, and people seem to blur as I pass them, trying not to hit anything in my panic sprint.

I hear Mom mumble something, but I can't exactly pick up on what it is.

But I find out soon enough, as something collides with me with an _oof_, tackling me to the ground.

My head hides the concrete with a _smack_, and stars pop in front of my eyes, but I still struggle to free myself from whatever is holding me down.

I turn my head to see a full grown man, with devilishly good looks, as far as males good. He's a face you'd expect to see on some magazine, but here he is, restraining me with superhuman strength and a feral smile.

I can see the wolf-like canines, and I realize he's an experiment.

"Hello, Fang," he answers in a rougher voice than I'd expect from a man of his appearance. "Remember me?"

I glare at him, and I'm happy to see he slightly winces from the intensity of it. I can see my mother appearing in the distance.

"I hope not; I try not to associate with evil, freaky douche bags of society," I say steely voiced.

The experiment man sighs, releasing his rancid breath over my face, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust slightly. He still smiles, as if expecting as much.

"Figures – you didn't remember to rescue me. Why'd you remember my name?"

Rescue… what –

Wait. I _do_ know him.

From seven years ago.

* * *

Mom had me in the lab, and I had just gotten my wings. I was strapped to the cold, metal lab table, when they brought a little boy in next to me and left. He was strapped like I was, but he seemed human enough for me to guess he had just been captured.

"What _are _you?" the little boy asked.

I turn my head to see the giant black wings sticking out of my back.

"I don't know," I reply honestly. "What are _you_?"

He blanches. "I'm going to be something?" he asks in fright.

"Maybe not. Tell you what, Are-You, whenever I can get free, I'll bust you out and we can pop this joint," I say, giving a small smile.

"Really?" he asks, hope in his eyes.

"Sure, Are-you. I'll call you Ari for short, kay?"

"Cool!" the kid shouted, excited.

The scientist move in and tote Ari out.

"See ya later, Ari!" I call out.

"Shut-up, F10013627!" a scientist calls, and I am injected with something that makes me black out.

I wake up the next day at home, not knowing how I got there.

* * *

"Ari," I breathe, shocked. "Ari, I didn't forget you. They drugged me, and I woke up out of the lab."

"Don't lie to me, birdie!" he yells at me, slamming me into the ground roughly. "I've heard all about your grand escape from the lab. But apparently I wasn't a priority."

"Ari, they've lied to you, not me. Listen to me –"

"Shut-up! I'm going to kill you –"

"That's quite enough, Ari."

We both turn our heads to see my mom standing right next to us, with a pair of restraints. She wastes no time in putting me in them, with Ari holding me down.

"We'll get rid of you yet, Fang. You can't outrun your problems forever, Fangie," Mom says calmly, as if she is telling me the weather.

I instantly snap back. "That's when you start fighting like hell."

Mom gives an evil smile. "You don't know what Hell is yet, boy."

I am dragged into a cage in the dark ally. People walk beyond this small, dark scene, completely unaware that a kid is being kidnapped to be tested on like a lab rat by the most evil people imaginable.

"I know you are in Hell, and that's all the motivation I need to avoid it," I say, before Mom loses her temper and injects me with a tranquilizer, and the world dissolves around me, though no one notices, and no one will ever know.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Pain**_** by Three Days Grace.**

**Sorry, no other chapter – apparently the unwritten part of this chapter was much longer than expected, so it took more time than anticipated. But maybe sometime this weekend! I have a freer weekend this time, so hope and pray!**

**Hope you enjoyed! I really liked writing this. It means something.**

**R&R? Herald the button would really appreciate it.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Hello!**

**I am updating yet again – mainly because the new, awesome, long chapter 13, which replaced the A/N, didn't cause the story to appear in the updated story list – AKA, no one knew I updated.**

**So this segment is to alert the world – I did update! Just for you! :)**

**The length is TBD, because I'm not sure how far I am going to get with this – I'm not sure I want to dive into my other idea in this chapter or the next one….depends on how much I can talk about.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride or any of the characters.**

* * *

_FPOV_

Mayhem.

The name of this experimentation lab of my childhood.

It's technically called the Macedia Academy for Young Honor Environmental Majors, which is a totally wanweird name for their real purpose. It's a false name, but I call it MAYHEM for short for two reasons:

It's an acronym for the school's name (I swear I am not making this up – the building is really called that).

It's a pretty accurate description of the activities that occur here.

So, here's an up-to-date status on my current condition.

Location: A small, cold, steel cage. Meant for large dogs, as opposed to large bird kids.

Time: Sometime at night. But this could be wrong, considering there really aren't any windows in the room that are uncovered and the lights have been out since I woke up.

Physical condition: A little worse for wear. Wings are strapped to my back by some contraption that encircles my upper torso. Hence, my serious back ache. Not that the cage helps that either.

Experimentation status: Been injected with some chemicals, just to see how I react. One of the six injections pretty much made me high. The other five had me screaming. I'm pretty sure the scientists must have had liquid fire in the tube, because I thought flames were searing my nerves.

HISMM (Have I seen my mother) status: currently MIA.

I've been battling my claustrophobia for the past however-many hours of my consciousness. The room smells of sterile chemicals, though the smell is not strong enough to mask the odors of the other experiments here, unclean or rotting away in their cages, dead.

The smell of blood is pretty prominent, too.

With all this time to think, I can't help but wonder what Angel thinks has happened to me. Abducted? Working? Running away? Playing a cruel game of hide and seek?

I wonder if Max has noticed. Not so much that I wonder if she is concerned about me, but more that she's noticed I am not present so that Angel has somewhere to stay.

What with the whole Jasmine experience and my mother's happy-go-lucky experimentation on me, I think it's pretty clear no one is really concerned about me above the age of 7.

Just then, a horrible, ear-piercing scream emanates from a few cages to my right.

I cover my ears in pain, squeezing my eyes shut as if I can end the sound if I can't see where it's coming from.

I have no idea what is causing this sound, but it's the equivalent of someone trying to kill a rabbit while running their fingernails down a chalkboard that's being fed into a huge grinder.

It that made any sense, it's that bad.

A sound breaks above the screaming, a resounding _boom_.

The scream breaks off into a gurgle, like someone is choking on water.

A gun-powder smell fills the air.

The smell of blood soon overtakes it, and upon opening my eyes, I see a scientist in the open doorway, a gun in his hand, still cocked at the now assumedly dead experiment.

"Just can't shut-up, can it?" he says in a mutter to himself, but my bird-kid hearing picks up on it.

I can feel the animalistic growl build in my throat out of full contempt for the whitecoat scientists here. They think they know what is right for the world, and that they have the right to whatever they want in order to achieve this belief.

This growl slips out before I can stop it, low, quiet, and threatening.

The scientist turns his head, startled by the sudden ferocious noise I didn't know I could even _make_.

I try to turn invisible, but he catches sight of me before I can flip that switch of visibility.

"You," he says, walking quickly over to my cage, the sound of his shiny black shoes going _click click_ on the cold cement floor.

"I've been looking for you," he comments, standing in front of my cage.

"Really? So sorry. Guess I forgot to turn on the giant **Fang's In Here** neon sign," I reply in a bored voice.

"Shut-up, F10013627!" he exclaims angrily, before taking a deep breath. He looks back down on me

….Well, the spot I'm supposed to be in. With me being invisible and all.

"It's no use staying invisible, F10013627. Just reappear, and I can take you to your next experiment without any trouble, alright?" the scientist asks naively.

Stupid scientist.

He's my ticket out of here.

To seem as if I am complying with his orders, I reappear, letting out a sigh.

He smiles and bends down to unlock my cage.

"See? It doesn't have to be so bad –"

That's when I fly out of my cage (not literally this time) and tackle him to the floor.

His eyes are wide with surprise and fear, and I give him a pretty maniacal smile.

"This doesn't I have to be so bad," I say in a slow, cold tone, still giving an evil, slightly crazed smile.

He visibly gulps.

Before he can even blink, I grab his head and slam it onto the concrete with a hard _whack_.

He yells, and I know that I have to make this fast, since someone probably heard that.

I kick his kneecaps, hard, breaking them so he can't walk. He's moaning loudly still, so I then punch him deftly in the stomach. All the air leaves him in a whoosh, and the noise stops.

"This is for experimenting on innocent kids," I say, then punch him in the nose.

The crunch noise it makes is enough to satisfy that demand.

"This is for making experiments like the one you killed suffer."

I stomp on his ribs, hearing a few cracks.

He's barely conscious, with all this pain.

"And this," I say, "is for being yet another scientist like my mom and fucking up my life."

I slam his head again into the concrete, and he blacks out, falling limp.

I stand up quickly, planning to flee, but applause greets my actions.

I turn to face the door and see my least favorite person there and a few of her experiments.

HISMM status: found her.

She gives a grin, as if this all amuses her. "Stupid Hanes – I told him to take a few of the lupine hybrids, since you're considered dangerous to the rest of the staff. When he didn't take some, I knew I better hurry down here. I missed most of the fun, but I made it for the oh-so touching finale."

I hear a rough laugh, and my gaze goes to Mom's right, where I see Ari standing.

"Grab him," Mom orders in a cold voice to the other lupine hybrids. "Then take him to analysis room 12."

Before I can move more than a few feet, I am grabbed and hauled by the arms, my feet flailing as I fight to keep them under me.

"Ready for some fun, birdie?" Ari asks, smirking with glee.

"I'll pass. Maybe another time, huh? I prefer movies myself. This isn't the best way to ask me if you're that interested."

He glares, and I glare back, glad when he is the one who flinches.

"That attitude is the reason things like me exist, birdie," Ari says.

"What, Bird-Kid Police? What a lame reason for creation," I say.

He gives me a grin that is far more feral than human, flashing his canines. "I actually prefer to think of us as Erasers, erasing the world of all the mistakes like you."

I look away, sad, but I keep a blank expression. "I'm sorry you've been raised to think that, Ari. You're only 14; so young to be so twisted."

"At least I get some revenge by watching you tortured," Ari replies, then opens the door to a white room and shoves me in.

Two scientists await me as I fall to the floor, chaining metal bands around my wrists and ankles. Two more Erasers await me as soon as they are done and toss me onto a treadmill.

"I'm not trying to watch my figure," I say, eying the devices. I look at the other scientists in the room. "You, on the other hand, need a few more miles and a few less molasses."

The scientist turns red with anger and storms out, muttering curses.

"Ready, Fang?" I hear my mother call over the intercom. "Just keep up with the treadmill, and nothing will happen."

The treadmill starts slowly, on speed 1.

"This is fun," I say sarcastically, but the dread begins to build as I theorize about what is going to happen.

* * *

_- - 3 hours and 42 minutes later - -_

My legs are dead beneath, pumping with what little energy my body somehow has. My lungs burn, and even with the extra air sacs for oxygen, my body can't get it fast enough.

I've stumbled a few times, and each time the treadmill tears at my skin and the metal bands shock me with a good 250 volts of electricity.

The edges of my vision are blurred and black, and the area in front of me keeps swaying around, like I'm in a washing machine.

See? So exhausted I'm making bad comparisons.

I can't even hold my arms up in my total weakness as my body fights to keep up with the 30 miles per hour speed they have it at. I didn't know treadmills could _go_ that fast.

I know, with faltering steps, that I am going to fall soon, and I won't be getting up.

Then, it comes – the step slightly off balance, the trip, and I am falling towards the runway of the treadmill.

I feel the shock before I even hit the mat, but my body's so weak I can't even notice it. My face hits the fast moving track and I feel the flesh seemingly burn off my face, knowing I'll have serious scars after this.

I fling off the track and lie in a heap, trying to breathe as my body stops moving.

"Get up, shit-face!" I hear my mother taunt, and the electricity unfolds again.

I squeeze my eyes close, wishing for an end, some peace in this mayhem.

The electricity ends, and I lie, just breathing, as my limbs try to recover from the harsh testing.

I can hear the scientists conferring in the observation room above.

"Extraordinary results-"

"Longer than any other experiment –'

"Could be a useful asset –"

"But there are other tests to improve –"

"The money involved isn't worth this –"

"No."

My mother's voice rings above the rest, and they fall silent.

"He's finally too weak to fight it. He ends now. He won't bother me any longer."

"But Director, he could be so useful –" another scientist pleas.

"No. He will _die_."

The door opens and my mother enters. It takes all my strength, but I stand up near the large window, the room spinning around me.

"Hello, son," my mother calls sweetly.

"I am _not_ your _son_," I say, cold, deadly, with so much hate.

"Then do you always call me Mom? Why never my real name, or some curse? Why Mom? Face it, Fang. I am your mother, whether I want to be or not. And you know it."

I give her a glare, feeling my eyes water with the deep hurt and betrayal I feel as I see her, the woman that is supposed to be my mother, a figure that is supposed to love me and protect me, point the gun at my heart.

"Goodbye, Nicholas," she says.

I bend my knees, ready to try to spring away, no matter how unlikely it is that I'll escape.

A shot fires.

I close my eyes.

But it doesn't hit me.

I open my eyes quickly to see my mother's eyes wide in shock as her shoulder bleeds.

And Ari is behind her, a gun smoking, a hard look in his eyes.

"He dies when _I _want him to," he says, coldly.

My mother shrieks in outrage and aims again, but I take my chance.

I'd rather die on my own terms than on hers or Ari's.

I fling myself back through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, and the glass shatters around me as I fly (not literally) into the open space.

A shot sounds out, and I feel it hit my shoulder, but before she can fire again I am already free-falling out in the open air above the city.

Unfortunately, my wings are strapped to my back by metal, and all that greets me below is the black, hard asphalt of the road below.

People are screaming, pointing at the suicidal-looking act of me dropping from a 5-story window with no parachute.

Really, it is.

The chance of me surviving is slim to nothing,

I close my eyes for a moment, just feeling the wind blowing my hair around, and try to imagine I am flying instead of dropping to my doom as my body flips around in the air.

But it's my last resort.

Last words: "I am _not_ your _son_."

Very star wars-y. So lame.

Last words to the general public: "How'd you like them apples?"

Better.

The asphalt zooms closer incredibly fast, and I am not sure I hope I land on my feet.

Part of me just wants the life of mine to end.

But Angel, and even Max and Iggy some, shine like beacons in my mind, motivating me to try to stay alive, to help them and let them not have to suffer a loss like this.

With that, I grunt and try to get my feet under me as black death threatens to destroy me.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Last Resort**_** by Papa Roach. And I got what I wanted in! All my jitters are gone.**

**What'd you think?**

**Leave your comments with Herald, the Review Button, and he'll give them to me!**

**R&R**


	15. Chapter 15

**Pretty short chapter.**

**Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

* * *

_FPOV_

By the fact that I am talking to you, you can probably inference that I have some semblance of consciousness.

AKA, I'm not dead, as in 10 feet under.

But what happened as I fell to the concrete, wings tied into my back, will shock you.

I died.

You know, the whole heart stops, body shuts down dying thing.

That happened to me.

Unfortunately, my mom's cronies came and fetched my carcass from the hospital morgue, took it to MAYHEM, and resurrected me like Frankenstein.

Yeah, I'm a living zombie.

….

You think I'm kidding?

….

I'm serious.

I don't know how I'll explain this to Angel. I mean, I'm pretty sure she's seen my dead body and sobbed.

I don't know how she'd handle the news. Do seven-year-olds cheer or scream at the concept of having a zombie older brother?

Let me rephrase that – how do seven-year-old _girls_react to hearing their older brother is an undead being?

I'm not green and half-way decomposed and all that jazz that the movies portray. I'm actually normal looking.

How I feel is a little different.

I'm never hungry. Never really tired either. Guess that has to do with the fact that I don't have human needs anymore.

I don't crave brains. Just…. Ew.

I'm not set out to make more zombies, nor can I make anyone a zombie by touching them.

The weirdest part is that sometimes, when I'm just sitting there, the world fades away around me, and I can see what's going on in a different realm.

The afterlife.

I never really knew what to expect when I died. I thought once you died, that was it. If reincarnation happened, I wanted to be a hawk.

But instead, it's just this mass of grey matter, with a simple wooden door on one side and a golden door on the other.

People pass through the grey matter, as ghost-things I presume, and pick a door. No predestined end for your life's work.

Just choose a door.

I never see what's behind the doors, but most people seem to pick the golden door.

I don't think I would. I mean, I have always lived simply. I don't need anything special. Wooden door for me.

….

I didn't really die.

I had you going there for a while.

Really? A zombie? What the crap?

I can see how your mind was processing, though. Now, this story would be the diary of an abused bird-kid zombie boy.

It's original, I'll give it that.

So to clarify if any of you are confused, I am _fully_ alive. I never died.

For real.

So, let me take you back to the scene where I am falling to a doom you all know I don't meet.

* * *

_Previously on Shadowdiving_

_With that, I grunt and try to get my feet under me as black death threatens to destroy me._

The concrete meets me…

And I land on my feet.

For a millisecond, all I can think was _phew!_

A millisecond later the pain erupts.

I won't share my thoughts about that.

Hint: there were a lot of cuss words.

Within a second I collapse to the ground, screaming in pain.

I'm pretty sure every bone in my leg just snapped like a twig.

I don't look at my legs. I close my eyes tight, as if I can escape the pain by not seeing the damage.

I hearing the panicked voices start to rise, but they are few, as I am far from the public eye.

My screams must carry far, though, because soon the screams and whispered gasps are becoming louder and more chaotic.

It's all background noise to the pain I'm withering from.

I feel a pair of arms grab me, and instinctively I tense, ready to fight.

Of course, that's stupid, what with my snapped-twig legs.

"Fang!" the person yells.

I open my eyes blearily to see Iggy facing me, a terrified expression on his face.

"Igs?" I grind out, trying to contain the wimpering.

"Oh God, Fang, what happened? Oh God, oh God… I gotta call 911 –"

"No!" I yell, and Iggy pauses, his finger poised to press the number.

"Iggy," I continue, seeing I have his attention, "you can't call 911. Mom will find out, and this will only be worse this time. I can't have the doctors reporting the abuse again. You barely got rid of it last time –"

"But Fang, I've never seen someone's legs look like… it's really freaky. I-"

"No, Iggy," I say lowly, "Take me to your house – reset the bones. I'll manage."

"Fang, I can, but Mom's home, and if she sees you, and she already doesn't like you, and she'll call the hospital for sure –"

"Iggy," I interrupt, having had another idea. "Take me to Max's house."

"What?" Iggy yells, shocked. "You hate Max. With a passion."

"Things have changed between us, Igs," I say. "And she's the only one who can help now."

* * *

Iggy drives his car furiously fast down the road, staring straight ahead.

_Ow, ow, ow._

Silence fills the car.

_Damn, my legs hurt_.

The tension in the air is almost tangible.

I can tell Iggy's mad at me.

"Your car's a mess, Iggy."

Iggy stares straight ahead. "Doesn't mean you have permission to bleed all over it." He says this in a serious tone, but I can see the smallest smile on his face. "Whenever you're legs are fixed, you are cleaning my car, and you owe me for the next millennia."

"Thanks, Igs," I say quietly, trying to show him how sincere I am that he is doing this.

_Hey, body. You can pass out anytime now, so I can stop feeling my legs._

"Any time," he replies just as somberly.

We arrive at Max's house.

Iggy lifts me from the car, and somehow I manage, with his help, to make it to Max's front door.

I ring the bell.

_This is possibly the most painful thing I've ever experienced._

A few moments later, Max, thank God, answers the door.

"What…." She trails off seeing my disheveled legs. "Oh my God, Fang!"

"I need your help, Max," I say through gritted teeth.

Then, suddenly, I fall unconscious.

_Finally._

* * *

I can tell you that eventually I gained consciousness.

Max's mom didn't call 911, thankfully.

But in exchange, and for my own care, I had to show Dr. M (that's her name) my wings.

One more person joined the loop.

Ironically, Dr. M is a vet, so she knows medicine from medical school and bird medicinal treatments from veterinary courses.

But I still had Iggy reset my bones, because I trusted him more than Dr. M right then, and he's done it for me before.

I didn't want Max to watch that, but she wouldn't leave.

Resetting bones = painful.

Resetting a full leg's worth of bones = wish-I-was-dead pain.

I tried to keep the screams in, the tears of pain back, tried not to show weakness.

But some were just too painful, and shamefully I shouted in agony.

I hated that Max had to see me this weak. I mean, what kind of respect can she give to someone who can't handle pain?

End result: bones reset, permanent finger marks in Dr. M's couch, and pride wounded.

But I'm alive.

I guess that's all I can be thankful for.

As for what happens next, I don't know.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to …. Nothing. No music this time.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Oopies!**

**Late update.**

**Chapter 16!**

**Disclaimer: I'm five foot four. I have all my hair. I'm a girl. Do you think I'm J.P.? (Answer no if you value your life)**

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_FPOV_

Week one in Dr. M's house.

My bones are finally healing. This took a long time, on my standards.

I guess breaking every bone in a leg – correction, _both_ legs – takes longer to heal than a single bone.

Still, while I had somewhat anticipated a longer healing time, I had not anticipated how utterly bored I would be.

There. Is. Nothing. For. A. Cripple. To. Do.

I've exhausted most of the Martinez's book collection. I've searched Google endlessly with random inquiries. I've watched several TV series.

I counted the panels on the ceiling in the room I'm in.

2,734.

However bored I am, I'd rather be alone than have someone always watch me.

I'm solitary like that.

But staying in one area for a long period of time never sat well with me. I'm too paranoid from the multiple past instances where I was stuck in MAYHEM for a week or more, stuck in a cage, pricked, prodded, and starved.

My wings ached to stretch out and fly, but I am stuck on the ground with my healing legs.

Dr. M enters the room, carrying a plate of something that smells delicious.

I've gotten over my distrust of Dr. M. It's strange, because I am the least trusting soul in the universe.

However, Dr. M is just so friendly and sincere and generally concerned about my well-being that I got sucked into… well, not trusting her exactly, but not minding her constant presence, so to say.

"Hello, Fang," she says in a kind tone. "I brought you something to make you feel better."

Then I see the plate.

And on it is _the_ best dessert known to man.

Dr. M's chocolate chip cookies.

The smell alone is enough to tell me such, but my childhood memories remind me of the countless times where Max and I ran into her house, dirty and hungry, to the smell of those cookies.

From what I remember (and this bird-kid memory is pretty wicked), the cookies are, to quote Iggy, "the bomb dot com."

Even though my memories are raising my expectations high, I lower them so as not to be disappointed, though secretly wishing for the cookies of my dreams.

One bite confirms it.

It takes all my self control (and trust me, there's a lot of it) to stop the moan of happiness that wants to escape my mouth.

The cookie is gone very quickly.

"Thanks, Dr. M," I tell her, reaching for another oval of deliciousness. "These are spirit lifters."

Dr. M laughs. "You're just like Max," she says. "You'd both trade eternal servitude for a cookie."

Inside, I laugh. I remembered the days when I'd find some cookies, and I'd get Max to do _anything_ I wanted in exchange for her ball of chocolatey goodness.

Cookies, chocolatey goodness, ovals of deliciousness…

My testosterone level just dropped a little.

I arch my back, hearing the sharp _pops_ of my back popping.

Having your wings tucked in really hurts your back.

Immediately, Dr. M's eyes fly to my back. "What's wrong, Fang? What hurts?"

Though I don't show it, Dr. M's care saddens me slightly. I haven't had such concern since I was ten, and although I hate to admit it, Dr. M's nurturing manner makes me slightly uncomfortable. I feel like I'm just being lazy, being so dependent on her. I'm just waiting for her to get fed up with my weakness and attack.

Like my mom.

It's just the expectation that was ground into my brain, hit by hit, cut by cut, curse by curse.

It's hard to break habits, no matter how much you want to.

This same embarrassment comes up now, with Dr. M's worried gaze settled on me. Trying not to appear weak, I stick my chin up and tell her, "I'm fine."

She studies my expression, which is perfectly neutral and devoid of all traces of a lie.

"You're lying," she says, and secretly I am shocked she could tell.

"Can all moms do that?" I mutter under my breath.

"All that sitting is doing no good for you," she says, her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth set into a grimace. She walks toward me, her hand rising.

I don't think. My mind immediately reads _"disapproval" _in her words and expression.

My mind immediately says, "_Defend yourself – she's going to hurt you."_

I act unconsciously, my muscle memory moving without consent.

And before I know it, I'm standing up, no matter how much it hurts, and I go into a blocking stance.

My face grows hard but emotionless, an eerie, determined calm. I back slowly, which hurts like heck, to the nearest, most open area I see to prevent cornering.

Dr. M freezes in place, her expression easy to read. Her mouth is open in a slight O, her eyes wide, her hand frozen.

She's confused.

Surprised.

Her hand drops slowly.

"Fang," she says softly, a deep sadness in her tone.

Her words break my trance, and I remove myself from my defensive position.

With my adrenaline leaving my system, the pain is recognized again, and I quickly grab the nearest object support, which I find is a table.

My fingers grip it tightly, the table being the only thing keeping me steady.

But a different kind of pain grips me, one that I can't remove my taking my weight off my legs.

I feel ashamed.

I quickly drop my head down, letting my overlong bangs fall in front of my eyes to conceal the emotions raging inside them.

I just keep failing.

I wasn't going to let her know what I've been through, the fear that's been instilled in me by an abusive mother.

I didn't want her to worry more about me. She has to deal with my physical weakness – and now this? A mentally perturbed teenager?

I can see why my mother wants me gone.

I'm just worthless.

I sink to the ground with a thud, my legs sticking out in front of me, bent slightly.

I can't meet Dr. M's gaze.

Not with the shame and deep sorrow consuming me, not when I don't believe I can control the emotions.

The same words repeating over and over and over.

_Failure._

_Disgrace._

_Dangerous._

_Shame._

_Failure._

_Disgrace._

_Dangerous._

_Shame._

The words repeat over and over, like a mantra.

_Failure._

_Disgrace._

_Dangerous._

_Shame._

_Failure…_

Dr. M is next to me, but my mind is distant from the words she speaks.

My mother is now saying the words, like she has in every fight, every attack.

_Failure!_

_Disgrace!_

_Dangerous!_

_Shame!_

_Failure!_

_Disgrace!..._

Only when Dr. M finally physically moves my head to look at her am I snapped out of my reverie.

I quickly try to compose an emotionless façade to deceive Dr. M.

Dr. M's eyes are filled with unshed tears, her eyes sparkling.

"What has happened to you?" she asks in a whisper, her voice thick.

"Nothing," I say, giving nothing away.

My problem.

My fault.

My problem.

My fault.

_Shame._

_Failure._

_Disgrace._

_Dangerous…_

"Did someone hurt you?" she asks, persistent.

"Not unless I deserved it," I say.

_Shame._

"How'd you get your wings?" she asks, still straining for answers I am determined not to give.

"I let them put them on me," I say.

"Who?"

"Scientists."

"Why would your mom let them do that?"

"She didn't know," I say, which is partially true – she was too drunk on anger that night to realize what she was doing.

Pause.

"Take off your shirt, Fang," Dr. M demands.

I swiftly remove the fabric and take the change to stretch my wings, since the shirt had no holes for my wings.

Dr. M's attention is not held by the wings, and she points at my scar-battered body.

"Did she not know about _THIS?_" she says angrily. I can tell her anger is not directed at me but instead my reluctance to give her answers.

"No," I say. Another half truth.

Too high to know.

The mantra grows louder.

_Failure!_

_Disgrace!_

_Dangerous!_

_Shame!_

_FAILURE!_

_DISGRACE!..._

"Fang, tell me who did this to you!" Dr. M says, her voice louder with determination.

_DANGEROUS!_

_SHAME!..._

"No," I say, my voice a deadly calm, holding in my anger and sorrow and shame and stress and everything else I was feeling.

_FAILURE!..._

"Fang, I want to help!" she exclaims.

_DISGRACE!..._

"I don't _need it_," I say, my voice growing icy, my reflex reaction to stress.

"Let me _IN_, Fang!" she says, her voice loud and full of sorrow, pleading, and determination.

My mother's voice is screaming the words in my head now.

_DANGEROUS!..._

"I can't!" I exclaim, desperation and anger entering my voice. "Leave me alone!"

_SHAME!_

_FAILURE!..._

"Fang, I care about you! I want to help you!"

My mental barrier snaps, and before I can shut my mouth…

The words spill out.

"No, you don't! You _can't_ want to help me! It's all _LIES!_ Mom said she would help me! She said she _LOVED me!_ And yet she still beat me! SHE made me fear EVERY DAY! SHE made me become Angel's protector at age _10! NO ONE WANTS TO HELP ME! _I'm a _DISGRACE_!"

Silence fills the air.

Everything is still.

The tears that had hovered in Dr. M's eyes for so long fall down her cheeks.

Sometime during my proclamation I stood up, and even though I know it will hurt, I sprint out the room and run down the hall, wishing to be anywhere but there, surrounded by the knowledge that I had just spilled the one secret I had sworn to keep.

I ended up in a bathroom, slamming the door and collapsing to the ground by the porcelain white toilet.

I'm vomiting before I'm down there three seconds from the physical pain and the emotional turmoil and fear, something I used to do when Mom first started abusing me.

Too soon, all the food I've consumed and then anything else that my stomach had resides in the toilet. I flush it and rest my head on the cool seat, staring away from the door.

The mantra has ended in my mind, silence instead replacing it.

But the damage is done.

For so many years, I had spent my life denying those words, condemning them as lies, assuring myself I was nothing like that.

But moments ago, I was ready to attack Dr. M, and I just screamed at one of the few people who wanted to help me.

Mom finally convinced me I'm a monster.

The door opens, and I expect it to be Dr. M. The footsteps approach me then stop.

Soon, a pair of warm, familiar arms surrounds me, too familiar to be Dr. M's, and too large to be Angel's.

"Sshh," a voice says softly in my ear, like how I'd comfort Angel a hard day.

As Max's arms hold me together at the seams, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to push the thoughts out of my mind.

"Don't shut us out," Max says softly. "Let us in. Let _me_ in. You don't have to do this alone."

"I can't," I say softly, and in my ears I can hear the fragility behind them.

"You can't save the world by yourself," she whispers. "Someone has to take care of you."

"No –" I start.

"You can't win this battle. You can't keep yourself together without help. No one could. You've gone farther than anyone probably has."

I sigh heavily and lean slightly into her as her logic hits my brain. Max takes this sign of my stubbornness crumbling to make her point.

"Let's make a deal – you focus on being superman or whatever, and I'll focus making sure you can keep fighting – deal?"

I freeze, deliberating.

My answer is a sigh. "Okay."

One of Max's hands starts to scratch lightly at the base of my wings.

I won't say it doesn't feel good – it feels amazing. I can never reach that spot, and her touch is sending sparks up my spine.

However, my wings have always been a personal part of me – touching them was something I didn't believe I'd ever allow anyone to do.

But, here I am, letting Max touch my wings.

Honestly, I didn't want to feel these emotions anymore.

The distrust, the fear, the anger, the confusion, the sorrow.

I look over my shoulder and look at Max. Her hand freezes, and we just look into each other's eyes.

Her gaze does something to my insides, and I feel warmth grow in my chest.

I look away, and she continues.

Something changes right then, but I don't know what.

"Max!" I hear Dr. M call.

Max gets up.

She locks the door.

She gets onto the floor.

"So," she says, "what do you want to talk about? We've got 30 minutes before Mom breaks down the door."

I smile. A real smile.

And we just talk.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**I Don't Feel It Anymore (Song of the Sparrow)**_** by William Fitzsimmons.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Super short update.**

**Maybe a long one this weekend – it depends on how much of my essay I complete tomorrow.**

**Disclaimer: me no own Maximum Ride. Comprende?**

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_FPOV_

I stood facing the open window in Max's house, letting the cool breeze brush onto my face. I closed my eyes, fully at peace as I listened to the sounds of autumn only heard in remote, quiet neighborhoods like this one.

I slowly extend my wings, letting whatever breeze that blows past my face fan my black feathers, cooling the stiff muscles and tendons. I feel very sore from having my wings confined in the house for so long, and I'm almost twitchy with anxiousness to leap out the window and fly.

I hear Max's attempt at quiet steps as she tries to sneak up on me. As she becomes increasingly closer, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, but I play ignorant and continue to stand still, wings extended, eyes closed, and breathing regular.

Right as her hand is merely inches from the base of my wings, ready to spook me, I say in a bored, monotone voice, disguising my humor, "Hello, Max."

I hear her intake of breath and gasp of fright as she gives a little jump, not expecting my knowledge of her whereabouts.

"Jeezums, Fang. That's not even cool."

At this point I turn around to face her, struggling to not smile and eventually settling on a smirk.

She glares at my suppressed humor and smacks my shoulder. "Stupid bird-kid with stupid bird-kid senses."

My smirk becomes more profound as I fight to keep in my laughter. "You know you think it's cool."

Max rolls her eyes, acting annoyed, but a grin breaks across her face, revealing her inner humor.

I turn back to the window, and the breeze blows my hair in a million directions. All I can think about is flying through that breeze, defying the laws of gravity set up by philosophers who never thought about children with wings.

Max joins me at the window, her long, dirty-brown hair swirling into tangles.

"You really miss flying, don't you?" Max asks. "You stare at the sky like a hobo might stare at a heated, insulated, giant cardboard box."

I look at her out of the corner of my eye, raising an eyebrow quizzically at her simile.

"Not sure I can relate to hobos and cardboard boxes," I say, then look back to the sky, "but I need to fly."

"Then go, idiot," Max says.

I look at her again, seeing her chocolate-brown eyes staring into mine. "Thought I had to get the okay first."

Normally, I wouldn't have cared about asking for Dr. M's permission.

However, after my emotional and almost physical outburst last week, I've been walking on eggshells around her, trying to be the best houseguest to apologize for my violent nature.

Max laughs, probably knowing of my eggshell-walking actions. "I give you permission to fly to your heart's desire on behalf of my mother, even if she doesn't know it."

I salute her. "Aye aye, captain," I say, enjoying the smile that creeps onto her face, lighting up the immediate area.

I roll back my shoulders then leap onto the window ledge, balancing in a crouch, readying myself to spring out. I count to three, then leap off the roof, freefalling through the air.

I let myself fall for a few more feet, reveling in the feeling of the air rushing past me and the feel of weightlessness.

Then, I whip my massive black wings all the way and flap hard, soaring up into the air.

I can feel the tendons and muscles in my back and wings stretching, warming up quickly after weeks of cramped quarters. I push my wings in a powerful down stroke and zoom upward at immense speeds, smiling with unguarded care.

I soar a few circles, practicing the gliding techniques of the city hawks that helped me learn to fly by using only the outermost feathers to turn and adjust my altitude.

I glance back at the house to see Max at the window, watching in awe. I soon become absorbed in the details I never noticed, like how the light makes her hair appear slightly blonde and her eyes glow, or how her upper lip is slightly uneven, making her smile radiant instead of eerie as one might expect.

I shake my head to rid the images of Max from my mind and tried to focus on the feel of the light wing on my primaries and my forehead, the sounds of the leaves rustling from the trees onto the ground.

It doesn't really work.

I don't really know why I suddenly have noticed Max's every move. My theory is that, with my being confined to a small room (mostly) with the same people for weeks, I have noticed more about her by the amount of time I've spent around her.

I really have no definite answer, though.

I find myself gliding toward the window where Max stares. I stop in front of the window, my face feet from hers.

"Wanna fly?" I ask her, then immediately question why I asked her. Flying is such a personal thing.

"_You want to give her something for the care she's given you,_" I reasoned.

"_Or you want to share something personal with her because you like her. A lot,_" my conscience annoyingly interjected.

The thoughts roar through my mind, but my exterior gives nothing away as I await Max's reply, my hand outstretched to help her through the window.

She gazes at my hand for a moment, then stares into my eyes. Although I know I have a blank expression on, her intense gaze seems to penetrate through my soul, like she can see everything I'm feeling and thinking.

Then she grabs my hand, and I pull her through the window, hold her tight against me, and fly away.

Max is tense, a sudden fear entering her eyes.

"Don't worry," I say, "I won't drop you."

She relaxes some, and before long she is smiling, laughing at the exhilaration of it all.

"This is amazing!" she says.

"I know," I say, smiling.

It's quiet for a while. I land on the roof of a skyscraper in the city and set Max down. We sit down.

Max speaks up. "Mom told Angel we were eating out tonight because of your full recovery. She asked her where she wanted to eat. You know where she picked to go, of all the places?"

"Where?" I say.

"McDonald's," Max replies, "because you, apparently, would like to play in the play area and drink McFlurries."

For a moment, it's silent.

Then we bust up laughing, and I'm laughing so hard I can hardly breathe, air sacs and all.

Angel's such a goof.

As we are laughing, Max leaning on me, sitting above the town, all I can think is how I wish every moment was like this.

However, reality soon catches up with me with a threatening, familiar voice.

"Surprise, surprise Fang. Your express ride to hell is here."

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to the Fall Out Boy album Folie a Deux's music.**

**R&R?**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18!**

**Wow. This is pretty sweet. I've gotten more chapters in during 3 months than I did with What Lies Behind Our Eyes. That's kinda awesome.**

**And this story isn't close to done.**

***cheers***

**Update is here, due to some pretty demanding reviews – though I can say, I hope more people review! I like the feedback. It motivates me. *hint hint***

**Without further adieu, the next chapter!**

**Disclaimer: James Patterson owns Maximum Ride. Cause if I did, I'd already have the 7****th**** book.**

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_FPOV_

I whipped around to see Ari and a band of other Erasers emerging from a stairwell to the roof.

"Didn't know you're riding the Hell-Train too, Ari. Glad to know I have company, but I can't join you currently."

Ari just smirks. "How do you plan to get past all us, huh?"

I look at him like he's dumb. Which he really is.

I unfurl my wings.

"Got a slight advantage. Have fun with those stairs."

I grab Max and leap off the roof, soaring into the air.

Max is frozen in my arms, a petrified look on her face.

"You have people _hunting you down_?" Max exclaims in shock.

I cast her a look that says _You didn't see this coming?_

"Just wait – there's laboratories too," I say, and I angel my wings down to a dark alley so I can land in secrecy.

"Wait – what are you doing? Those men are going to be coming!"

I touch the ground and immediately let Max go. "I know. I can't outrun them when their hunting."

Max's eyes grow wide.

I shove her forward. "Run. Before they get creative."

"_And you get captured,"_ I add mentally.

Max gets a look on her face.

Oh dear Lord, save me now.

This is the _worst_ time she could have chosen to become stubborn.

Max opens her mouth to start, but I interrupt. "No," I say, my eyes narrowing, my facial expression showing that I will not budge.

Max seems to be blind.

"I'm not going to let you just go off and fight, not knowing if you'll be okay!" Max says angrily.

I rub my forehead, mentally doing the math as to when the Erasers will find me, and sigh.

"Max, I promise you I will be fine. I can take Ari. _And_ his crew. Meet you at McDonald's."

I push her forward, but she shoves back.

Internally, I have the wide-eyed shock face. Exteriorly, I have a look of indifference.

"Last time I let you leave by yourself, you ended up unconscious on my doorstep with your legs screwed up and blood everywhere. Excuse me for my refusal to let the same thing happen _twice_!" Max says.

"Look, Max, I can't fight well knowing they might take you –"

"Oh, so now I'm a liability!"

Insert mental face-palm and aggravated sigh.

I didn't have time for this. If I wanted Max gone by the time the Erasers came, I needed to get her away, **now**_**.**_

"No! God, do you want to be experimented on? Let me tell you, it sucks!" I exclaim coldly.

That shut her up.

I took advantage of the momentary silence to press my point. "Please, go. I'll be okay. That's our deal, right? I get to be superman, and you get to make sure I keep being superman. It's time to be superman."

Max eyes me, as if searching for an answer to some question. Then, she walks right up to me, gazing into my eyes.

My heart beats faster, and in the back of my mind, I wonder why this is.

The front of my mind is all consumed in Max's warm brown eyes.

Her eyes swim with some emotion that I can't name, and her lips part, ready to say something. Then, they close, and Max shuts off my view of her eyes by closing her lid.

"If you're not at McDonald's in 20, I'm coming back," she warns in a cute, dangerous tone.

I can't help myself. I'm so full of relief I release a smile, a _real_ smile, the kind I only used to give to Angel.

"Sounds good," I say, smiling.

Max remains standing, just staring.

I lean towards her ear and whisper, "You're suppose to run away now."

Max blinks rapidly, as if woke from a stupor, and blushes pink. "Um… yeah. Right. Bye."

I chuckle as she turns away and runs speedily to some location in the opposite direction we came.

I only have to wait a few minutes before the Erasers show up.

"Finders keepers," Ari sneers.

"Losers weepers," I reply in a mocking tone.

Ari glares.

"Let's end this," he says. "I have dinner to catch."

The Erasers leap.

The first Eraser clumsily swings a punch at my face. I grab his first mid-swing, winning major BA points, then swing my own fist back into his face, hitting him square in the nose.

He howls in pain and leaps away.

The next Eraser pairs up with a buddy, attacking from both sides, claws emerging as they morph into wolves. In a move that stunt doubles couldn't perform, I kick my left foot out to the side while slamming my hands together the opposite direction, kicking one in the stomach and breaking the other guy's sternum.

A round of applause, everyone.

My fighting is so natural, it's almost like its choreographed.

I drop low and stick my left foot out again, tripping up three Erasers in one fell swoop.

Standing up, I parry with an Eraser for a little while, exchanging blows and blocking. He gets a good one to my stomach, and the air leaves me in a whoosh, but I retaliate quickly by socking him in the head, satisfied when he falls to the ground unconscious.

I wheeze for air as I step on another Eraser's head, preventing him from rising off the ground.

As air enters my lungs, I look around.

Ari is the only one left.

He stares at me, a calculating look in his eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" I ask. "Come on!"

"That's not why I'm here," Ari says.

Okay.

Everyone join me:

_Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?_

"I'm listening," I say.

Ari is silent for a minute, then speaks quietly. "I was strolling around the lab when I found a collection of old surveillance tapes. I was bored, so I watched a few, picking randomly."

He stops.

"So?" I ask, not understanding what he was getting at.

"So," he continues, "I happened to pick a tape of the night you supposedly escaped."

OH.

"There wasn't any grand escape, no epic battle scenes and bloody screams. NO. You just got carted out, unconscious, to a van. Like you said."

I am silent, letting Ari take his time to explain.

When he looks at me again, his eyes hold a cold fury of revenge.

"They've been lying to me all these years, getting me to hate you, when you had no control over rescuing me at all. I hate them. I hate her, that mother of yours - I _hate_ her!" Ari exclaims, the fury plain on his voice.

He gives a few ragged breaths as he calms down, then continues.

"I need to get away from them, but I need to repay you for all the crap I've given you. I want you to know – you have inside help. If I see you again, I promise to help you any way I can."

I look him hard in the eyes, trying to determine if there is any truth in his words.

All I can find is sincerity.

Finally, I nod my head.

"Now, what do you want from me?" I ask.

He hesitates, obviously not expecting me to know there would be a hook attached.

He looks away when he answers.

"I need you to come back to the lab. Just for a bit," he says, biting his lip.

"Uh, hell no," I answer. "I'll do the next best thing, though, cause I need to repay you for all the crap _you've_ been through."

I whip out my knife, and before he knows it, I have slashed into his arm.

"What the fuck!" Ari yells, his eyes furious, holding his arm in pain as he tries to stop the bleeding.

I hold up what I snatched from my slice: a silver, metallic computer chip.

Then I throw it to the ground and stomp on it in a fast movement, crushing it. It gives a spark upon impact, then falls into a crumpled heap.

"Tracking chip. They don't know where you are anymore," I explain.

Ari's eyes widen in surprise. "How did you know that it –"

"Past experience," I say, and I raise my sleeve to show a small, faded scar on my upper right arm, in the same place as Ari's new cut.

His eyes glisten with an emotion I can only assume is gratitude. "Thank you –"

"I suggest you run as far away as you can before they realize you are no longer on the radar," I say.

He stands there a moment, stunned. Then, he runs forward, slapping my shoulder as he passes me.

"Thanks, man," Ari calls.

I nod, then unfurl my wings and fly up into the sky.

Why?

Because I have a McDonald's date with Angel that I promised Max I'd keep, that's why.

* * *

I land by the dumpsters and fold in my wings, slinging on my jacket to cover my wings. Then, I walk out casually, as if to say _What? Me? I'm just a normal passerby. Doesn't everyone walk this way?_

I open the doors of McDonald's, and the smell of grease and reheated burgers greets my nose.

Ah, industrial-packaged food, I love you so.

I scan the yellow and red tables, scanning the faces for a familiar pair.

Only to be tackled from behind.

"Wha-" I begin, but as soon as I look down I see Angel, hugging my legs and grinning.

"Fang! You're here! Max was all silent and worried, but I told her you always come back! We are playing in the playplace. Wanna play?" Angel asks.

One look in her Bambi eyes and I know what lies ahead.

"Sure," I reply, unable to resist, especially at the grin I get in return.

"Yay!" she squeals, and she leads me to the play area.

As soon as we get near, I see Max, her mom, and Gazzy seated around a five-person round table. Max looks up, and when she sees me, a look of relief comes on her face. She says something to her mom, then stands up and walks over to Angel and me.

"Told ya so," I say softly to Max as we follow Angel to the ball pit.

It's only meant for seven year olds, but you know, we're just that awesome.

Max's grin sends my stomach fluttering. "And I don't see any visible wounds – though that doesn't mean I won't be checking at home."

I give her a smirking grin. "Gosh, Max, you're just ready to get my clothes off, aren't you?" I say teasingly.

She blushes and smacks my arm.

I grab her hand in mine and tug her forward. "Come on. Angel's waiting, and I am _dying _to pelt someone with plastic, germ-infested toys."

And like that, we are holding hands. It doesn't feel weird, though. It feels natural, comfortable. Warm.

What's not natural is the sparks that are shooting up my arm, but I don't say anything because I am sure it is just my imagination.

The smile Max gives me is blinding. "Like you could cream me. I am pro at play-pen dodge-ball."

And I laugh – _really_ laugh – and we leap into the pen, pelting balls like and back-talking like the dorks we are.

And it's sad to admit – she creamed me.

"Stop! Stop!" I exclaim, laughing, trying in vain to block the balls from hitting me.

Max drops the ball she was holding, laughing uncontrollably, and I take the moment to leap across the pen (I know – that takes skills) and tackle her down into the mass.

We are concealed beneath layers of rainbow-colored plastic, and our faces are literally three inches apart. Our breathing is ragged from our war, our faces flushed pink from the exertion.

Max looks into my eyes, and something swells deep inside me, an overbearing emotion.

I realize – I don't want this moment to end.

There was no one else in the world I'd rather be stuck in a germ-infested ball pit (filled with small children) with.

Max's eyes are shining with some emotion, and from the flabbergasted look on her face, I can tell she doesn't understand what is filling the air as much as I do.

I give her a smile, because I just can't help myself.

And you know what?

Max leans forward and kisses me.

On the lips.

It only lasts a few seconds before it is gone. It's gentle and soft.

But Lord, _wow_.

My head is spinning with so many thoughts, and I can collect myself to put up an emotional block, so my face clearly displays my open-mouthed surprise.

Max's eyes are shining, waiting.

Then, before I can think, I lean forward and kiss her, my hand finding her cheek.

It's a little deeper, but it only last seconds before I pull back, taking it slow since I don't know what to do now.

And we are staring at each other.

Then we are smiling and laughing, and I try to capture this moment in my mind, not willing to let it ever fade from my mind, because even though we are in a kid-filled pit, we are hidden from view and it's just the two of us and it's perfect.

It's the last night I get with her before I go back home.

And in my life, you never know when the top of the world falls on you.

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**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Top of the World**_** by The All-American Rejects.**

**R&R? Herald the button likes to be tickled!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello World!**

**I'm back! With an update before Thanksgiving (and with that, I hope everyone gains 10 pounds, cause that means you ate yourself into extreme happiness like you should).**

**I do feel miserable. I'm sick. So if something doesn't make sense, blame that.**

**Sorry for my absence. I've had 18 hours of practice (12 of which on one day) two weekends ago and this past weekend I had 7 hours of practice and an all-day competition. **

**AKA no time for an update.**

**But without any hesitation, here's Chapter 19!**

**P.S.: Review! I like feedback.**

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_FPOV_

Angel and I stand on the doorstep of our house, hiding under the awning as it rained around us. Dr. M's car speeds away, having just dropped us off.

After a few weeks of recuperation and Dr. M hospitality, we finally have returned home.

The home that we both now know contains our worst nightmare on occasion.

However, eventually we – or rather, _I_ – had to go home. Mom would get to wondering where I'd gone.

If she ever came home anymore.

I feel Angel slip her small, warm hand into mine and I look down. She gazes at me with her bright blue eyes filled with apprehension.

"Ready?" I ask her, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

She gives a strong nod. My little trooper.

I take out my keys from my pocket and unlock the door.

I push it open, and Angel and I stand there for a moment, listening.

Silence greeted us.

I take a step inside and Angel follows. I shut the door and turn on the lights, illuminating an empty, untidy house.

And just like that, we are home.

* * *

_(a week later)_

Things have been relatively… normal.

I feel like I should knock on wood for using that adjective, but it's true.

I wake up, shower, wake Angel up, feed Angel, fly to school, drop her off, and go to my school.

After school, I wait outside Angel's school till three o'clock, when she emerges, and we either go to the park or go home, depending on how tired Angel is.

I work on homework while Angel watches some cartoons for an hour. Then, I play with her or read, whatever she wants to do.

I cook dinner, and we eat around 7.

Angel usually colors for a while. I clean up. I help Angel take a bath and get her in her pajamas.

I put Angel to bed at 9, while I usually don't go to sleep till much later – I'm used to almost taking watch, doing homework or just sitting around, protecting the house, watching for intruders. With Mom often coming home late to attack, I'm used to staying up for her so she doesn't attack Angel.

I've never had a steady sleep schedule – hence I can function well on 4 hours or less of sleep.

Tonight, as I tell Angel goodnight, she grabs onto my shirt with her small fingers, stopping me.

"What's up?" I ask her, untangling her fingers from my shirt.

She looks up at me with her blue eyes sparkling and wide, her lower lip jutting out.

Bambi eyes.

Ah, gosh dang it.

Whatever it is, I'm not getting out of it.

"Fang," she starts, then pauses before continuing in a rush, "….….….canIgo-overtoGazzy'shouseafterschoolplease?"

I blink my eyes, a little stunned at how fast the words came out – and in one breath.

I take a moment to sort the words out in my brain, then look down and see the Bambi eyes in full force.

Oh, look! There goes me, being wrapped around her finger.

"Sure," I say, rubbing her shoulder.

"Yay!" she exclaims, hugging my arm. I smile a full blown smile at her joy.

"Goodnight, Ange," I say again, and once again I try to leave.

"Wait!" Angel cries once more, latching onto my shirt.

I look over my shoulder at her, my eyebrow raised.

She looks down, casting her blue eyes down. "Can I… can you let me play with your wings? Like I used to? Just for a little. Please?"

She looks so small and fragile and cute.

And arg, what happened to Mr. Rock?

I'm turning mushy.

But in answer to her request, I unfurl my large, black wings, extending them as much as I can in the small room before curving them down.

Angel's smile is all I need to make me happy. Her small hands play with the soft, black feathers, running her hand along them and laughing as they tickle her skin.

The amazement in her eyes… she thinks these wings are a gift, a wondrous anatomical appendage that makes me extraordinary.

While I know them as they are – a curse, a mark of my isolation, an invitation to be exiled from society. A huge, dark reminder that I have a mother that doesn't and never will appreciate my existence beyond being a test subject.

I also know that they are a part of who I am, a gateway to the sky, a device that lets me defy gravity and soar above everyone else trapped by physics.

It's a double-edged sword, but I'll carry it proudly, defending Angel and I from the world.

Anything to make her smile.

_

* * *

_

(the next day)

I pulled up along the curb in Mom's car, shifting into park. I sat there with Angel in the back seat, the car shut off, listening to the sound of the rain pouring outside, seeing the grey sky open its soul and cry.

"I'll go in, Angel, and get your stuff. Wait in the car," I say with a tone that allows no misbehavior.

She salutes me and gives a cheeky smile. "Aye-Aye, Fang!"

I give a small laugh and leap out of the warm car into the freezing, wet rain.

I run to the house and hastily insert my keys into the lock. I yank the door open as soon as it's unlocked and leap into the house, shutting the door as soon as I am in and my keys are out.

I take a second to shake the water off me – "like a dog" as Angel says – and then head to her room, finding her backpack and filling it with her items that were "absolutely positively necessary" to have fun.

I am heading out of her room when the hairs on the back of my neck tingle, sirens sounding off in my head.

Two possibilities:

Someone's here

Something's wrong

Either of which aren't good.

I sprint to the front door and yank open the door, ready to confront whatever's out there.

And I'm greeted by a mass of metallic-looking people with beady-red eyes.

Oh, and get this – they have metal wings grafted onto their backs.

But beyond this unpleasant party, whose leader is now commanding I surrender in a monotone, computerized voice, is the most horrible sight in the world.

Angel's no longer in the locked car.

The rear car door is crumpled and off on the side of the road.

Angel, my baby girl Angel, is in… is in…

Is in the arms of these metallic beasts, mouth smothered and fear in her eyes.

And she's disappearing, out of sight.

"ANGEL!" I yell, trying to leap through the crowd of metal monkeys in my way.

I feel them attacking, the sharp sting of their metal hands and feet cutting my skin in a million places, but it's like a feather brushing me compared to the pain I feel in my chest, the panic and horror and anger and fear that threatens to eat me whole if Angel leaves my sight.

I am struggling through these loons frantically.

I have to get her.

I have to.

I… I have to…

I kick off and punch my way, the anger making its way to the front of my mind.

"ANGEL!" I yell again, panicked.

I break free of the pack, now fallen around me, and I start flat-out sprinting toward the distant form of Angel and the MetalBoy.

I am stopped mid-bird-kid-speed-stride and almost fall over as a strong hand grabs my forearms.

I whip to face him, furious and vengeful and bloodthirsty, and I let it all play on my face in the deadliest glare I think I ever gave.

And even though he's a computerized minion he trembled.

BA points for me.

"Fucking little – why?" I spit at him, cold and beyond fury and blinded by the overall panic that screams "_get to Angel NOW_."

I exert a force that I didn't know I had and tear my arms out of the Fucking-Little-Why Boy's grasp.

Or rather, I ripped his arms out of his metal body, leaving the fingers wrapped around my arms.

"You _**bastard**_!" I yell and I grab his neck.

And I snapped it.

In the back of my mind, I was freaking out. I never killed.

Never.

But now, my mind was willing to accept anything –

As long as it saved Angel.

The FLYBoy (as I'll call him – and them ) crumbled down, done.

It was just a computer. I didn't really kill him –

"FANG!"

Angel's voice rang high and clear through the air, though the pouring rain tried to smother the sound. My core suddenly felt hollow, and I wanted to throw up everything in my stomach.

"ANGEL!" I scream, sprinting and taking off into flight to catch the speck of the Flyboy running in the distance.

As I approach the Flyboy, he realizes someone is pursuing him and takes off with a creak of his metallic wings. He leaps into the air surprisingly fast, as if rocket-fueled.

Probably is.

"Angel, I'm coming!" I yell, the distance between us feet away. I pump my wings harder than I ever did, flying at extremely fast speeds, extending my arms to grab Angel as soon as possible.

The Flyboy presses a button on his arm.

He suddenly soars out of reach, cruising impossibly fast away from me.

"FANG –" Angel yells, just as the Flyboy disappears in a burst of sonic speed.

Her unfinished cry echoes through the dark, raining sky like thunder after lightning, impossibly loud and frightening.

"Angel," I whisper to the empty air.

I land, my wings exhausted, in a small cluster of trees. All I can feel is anger, so much anger – at myself.

Failure.

I almost had her!

"Ugh!" I scream in frustration, slamming my fist into the bark of the tree. A nice sized hole is left, but my hand is torn open, bleeding freely.

"No!" I repeat over and over, punching the tree with my fists with each word. Each time, the words and the punches get weaker and weaker until I am on the ground, on my knees, all the anger gone and the hollowness there.

"Angel," I say softly, a prayer, as her cry echoes through my chest.

It hurts – it hurts worse than anything I ever felt before.

I collapse in on myself, broken for the moment, lost in the shock and pain of the situation. I can't tell if I'm crying or if the rain is obscuring my vision.

My throat constricts, swollen with sadness, but it can't escape my body.

I lie, bleeding in the grass, for once hoping this is a nightmare that I can wake up from.

I lie, bleeding in the grass, for once praying a God could heal this accident.

I lie, bleeding in the grass, for once wishing I was the one captured.

I know I will eventually get up and pursue.

However, I can't help but live this failure, away from the world, for a moment.

If I'm soaked enough, hurt enough, suffering enough, maybe Angel will stay safe.

My happiness cannot survive in this world.

But, I never said my life was happy, did I?

_Rain, rain, go away._

_Come again another day._

_All the world is waiting for the sun…_

_All the world is waiting for the sun…_

"_I am always waiting for the sun."_

_

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**This chapter is dedicated to Rain by **_**Breaking Benjamin**_**.**

**I actually command you youtube this song and listen. It is soft and moving and… so fitting for this chapter.**

**And remember: R&R. **


	20. Chapter 20

**The Update is here!**

**I hope you like it – it's kind of background info on the other characters – but I'm introducing Nudge (though she isn't a very major character – more a convenience character. I need her, and I think you readers will appreciated the stories I use).**

**As I am currently typing this late, I am not sure when this will actually be posted.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Maximum Ride variety.**

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I landed silently in front of Iggy's house, tucking my wings in swiftly. I ran onto his porch, trying to dodge the rain.

I knock three times sharply, and it only takes Iggy a minute to open the door.

"Sup?" he asks, discreetly analyzing my condition. His eyes catch on my black long-sleeved shirt. "What happened? It looks like a red pen blew up on your wardrobe."

I glance down. My once black shirt is covered in many dark red dashes. I raise the hem of my shirt up and see the hundreds of scratches lining my tan flesh.

Quickly I pull down my shirt, hoping Iggy didn't get a good glance at that. It's not a bad injury – no deep cuts, just a lot of paper-cuts. From the Flyboys grabbing me (not that way, you perverts), blocking my path to Angel.

Angel. Her name rings painfully in my heart.

However, luck is not on my side, as I look up to see Iggy's wide-eyed gaze honing onto the marks with new knowledge.

"Jeezums, Fang! You were attacked?"

"I'm fine," I reply.

"That doesn't answer my question!"

"Exactly," I reply, smirking.

"God, Fang, you've been turned into a voodoo doll, and you're trying to crack jokes!" Iggy exclaims.

"Look, I didn't come here to exchange banter over my papercuts. I –"

"Papercuts? It's a little bit more serious than papercuts!"

"My well-being, which is _fine_, is not the concern right now –"

"You are _not_ fine! When are you going to learn that –"

"I don't freaking care! I'm trying to tell you something more important than this –"

"What, Fang? What is more God-freaking-important than the fact that my best friend is standing on my porch looking _like someone tried to put him in a shredder_!"

"Angel's _**gone**_! Is that good enough for you!" I yell, losing my cool.

Iggy stands there, silent, a somberness fallen inside him.

"These metal things kidnapped her out of the locked car when I was inside. I tried to get her back…," I say softly then trail off, glancing at my red-stitched shirt.

It's silent for a few moments, then Iggy quietly replies, "I'm sorry."

I look away from him, glancing out at the pouring rain. "Nudge home?" I ask in a disinterested tone.

Iggy's answer is to enter the house, leaving the door open for me to follow.

I follow Iggy into the house and shut the door behind me. Even though every inch of me is wet (and some parts bloody), I still take off my shoes upon entering the house.

I'm such a well-mannered boy.

Iggy's retreating form walks into the kitchen. It's a small room, with checkered tile floors, an old blue refrigerator, and cheap cabinets. Homey.

Seated at a square yellow table is a girl with dark, mocha colored skin, big dark brown eyes, and chocolate-brown-colored, unruly curly hair that is so poofy that it almost puts afros to shame.

Nudge.

She is talking on a cell phone, eagerly trying to convince whomever to agree with whatever her point is.

I feel sorry for the person, even though I don't know who there are.

Nudge has quite the motor mouth. Once you start her, there is really no off button until someone:

Distracts her (usually with something shiny)

Slaps a hand over her mouth

Nudge is only 13, but she can solve the problem I have at hand.

See, Nudge is Iggy's cousin. When she was little, she used to suffer extreme sore throats. Extremely concerned for their daughter and desperate to end the constant trips to the doctor and the crying, her parents placed Nudge in an experimental drug trial. The goal of the medicine was simple: alleviation and removal of even the worst sore throats. Nudge was 8 at the time.

The doctors told Nudge's parents to give her the syrup three times a day (morning, noon, and evening). They hid it in her meals so Nudge never really knew she was taking medicine. After a few days, Nudge didn't complain about sore throats anymore. Her parents thought that a cure had finally come and their troubles were over.

They continued the treatment, feeling greatly relieved at Nudge's apparent health.

One day, Nudge got curious. Her mother had gotten the medicine bottle out to mix the syrup into Nudge's food. She left for a moment to take the towels out of the dryer, not thinking about Nudge messing with the medicine.

Ignorance is always a tragic flaw.

Nudge had seen her mom pour the medicine into drinks and whatnot. She didn't know that it had been going into _her_ drinks – she thought her mom was drinking the pink syrup stuff. Seeing the medicine, she decided she wanted to try the "grown-up juice."

There was no child-proof cap on this bottle. Her parents had poured the contents of the medicine bottle into an empty plastic water bottle, hoping that way Nudge wouldn't suspect medicine at all.

Well, she didn't, all right.

She unscrewed the plastic cap easily and started to drink it. It was a little thick, and the flavor was a little nasty, but if her mother drank it, surely she should too.

Her mother returned two minutes later.

Nudge had drunk almost half of that 16oz water bottle of medicine by then.

Nudge's mom would soon grab the medicine bottle from Nudge's possession and proceed to grab Nudge and drive to the hospital.

Two minutes into the journey Nudge passed out from overdose.

It took 7 minutes to get to the hospital. Within seven minutes of arriving, Nudge was hooked up to a machine trying to rid her body of the medicine.

But it was too late by then. The medicine didn't kill her – obviously – but enough had started acting for the change to begin.

See, the medicine functioned by causing the throat to overproduce healing enzymes that created new, healthy throat cells to cover and replace the old, unhealthy ones. But when Nudge overdosed on the medicine, it went beyond making new throat cells. It caused her other systems to start mass producing its products.

Now here is where there were technically fancy-schmancy medical terms involved, but I really don't remember them. The main idea is that Nudge's brainwave pattern started going haywire, functioning on maximum speed. Nudge was able to comprehend and absorb information very easily.

In other words, she became a genius.

However, that brainwave speed causes her thoughts to spin a little too quickly, causing her to drift off topic very easily without finishing a thought.

To adapt to her quick moving ideas, Nudge learned to talk extremely fast, trying to fit her huge ideas into a few seconds.

She's not perfect yet.

At least her throat doesn't hurt anymore.

Her eyesight is extremely enhanced due to the overdose as well – it's even better than mine. She catches the details that others easily miss. Combined with her brilliant logic and a computer, she is the world's best detective.

Which is why I came.

Iggy taps Nudge on the shoulder, and Nudge turns to look at him without stopping her conversation. He points to me and Nudge looks over. She falls silent.

Apparently my appearance can be added to the list of things that end Nudge's rants.

"I'll call you back, Stacie," she says and hangs up. She rises from her chair and walks over to me.

"Well, hello Fang – what happened to you? It looks like a spork took revenge upon your body."

This is one of the things I like about Nudge; she can state something so positively.

Sarcasm, people.

"Not really important. I have a favor," I tell her.

By the ways her eyes light up, I can tell I have her attention. "What is it?"

I take off the backpack I have been carrying and unzip the pouch. Reaching in, I pull out the metal Flyboy arm that got stuck on my arm.

Nudge's eyes, if possible, go wider, and before she can start the ramble I can see hovering on her lips, I answer her questions.

"Some machine's appendage. Figured you could get some info from it."

Nudge's eyes burn with a million questions, but with great restraint she asks only one. "Like what?"

"Origin. Location. Purpose. Layout. Maybe where they are hiding a 7-year-old blonde girl."

Nudge's expression grows sorrowful. "Oh, Fang, I'm so sorry. I know this must be horrible –"

"Can you find it or not?" I interrupt, my impatience leaking through. My inner Fang clock keeps reminding me that every second that passes leads Angel farther and farther away.

Nudge is annoyed at my outburst, but she holds out her hand. I place the Flyboy arm in her open palm.

Immediately her eyes focus on it, her eyebrows narrowed in concentration. The wheels of her mind seem to visibly churn as she tries to interpret this device.

After 30 long, silent seconds, she opens a flap on the arm I hadn't seen and pulls out a chip resembling a memory card.

"There you are, Buster," Nudge says quietly to the chip.

She inserts it into the computer, and 2 minutes and much advanced computer workings later, Nudge has several documents pulled up.

I peer over her shoulder and try to decipher the many terms and diagrams before me.

"This thing came from some company named Itex," Nudge answers to my unspoken question. She scrolls down the page and highlights something. "It keeps making all these statements on its 'pure and divine' purpose of scientific explorations to better society, but looking deeper all I find are these crazy reports on… on hybrid creatures. Like this one," she says, pointing to a picture of some humanoid with the coloring and spots of a cheetah.

I try to keep a surprised expression as I view these pictures. I've seen these kinds of experiments multiple times in Mayhem. I can see what kind of company Itex is.

However, Nudge does not know that I have been experimented on in labs or that I, myself, have wings growing out my back.

So.

I zone back into her rant on how horribly tragic all these experiments were.

"…can you believe that these things really exist?" Nudge finishes, looking at me.

"…hope not," I answer, suffocating the part that wants to whip out my wings and show Nudge how much I believe 'these things really exist'.

"Anyway, the plant where this robot was from is located in Chancinova, the big city 100 miles due East," Nudge answers. She reads a little bit, a perplexed expression on her face.

"However, it keeps saying of 'reports' in an Itex in New York. You might check that place out first."

I nod.

"I really don't have a layout, but I am guessing they are keeping her in the basement of this building. I have the address, though: 245 N. Chesternut Lane." **(AN: I don't know if this place actually exists anywhere; if it does, I'm sorry)**

"Ok. Thanks, Nudge," I say, and I turn to leave when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I turn my head to view Nudge, a nervous look on her face.

Oh boy, she's plotting.

"Fang?" she asks. "I have a suggestion. I mean, if you plan to infiltrate Itex, which I just assume you will because Angel is down there and everything… anyway, you can't just waltz in there, and you don't have much to disguise you with, but I have supplies, and I just learned some new things in beauty school this week, and I was wondering if I could maybe make you over? Just for a disguise and nothing else I promise I mean if you want I would just be happy to and –"

"Nudge. You're talking Fang's ears to death."

Iggy had come to my rescue and slapped a hand over Nudge's mouth. I send him a grateful glance, and Nudge glares. I smirk.

But in all honesty, what was I planning? Nudge was right; I couldn't just waltz into Itex.

I might just need that disguise.

I sigh, and that is all the answer Nudge needs. Even behind Iggy's palm her squeal is deafening.

She rips Iggy's hand away and starts her excited rant.

"ZOMG this is awesome! I mean, I need to get stuff! What to do, what to do? I could get that number 37 and…"

At this point I zone Nudge out. I don't want to hear what torture is about to happen to me.

* * *

"Tada!" Nudge exclaims as she whips a mirror in front of my face.

And I'll admit it – seeing my new face was so shocking I screamed.

Loudly.

Only for a second, though.

Then came the annoyance.

"I look like a Bieberboy!" I exclaim in disgust.

"No you don't!" Nudge yells at me. "Justin Bieber is _soooo_ much hotter!" **(AN: Just for your info I don't like Bieber or his fever, but it seems a very Nudge thing!)**

Nudge kept my bangs long, but she did some sloping-style to them so they flop over one eye. The tips are died with tawny brown and white. Kinda like a hawk's colors. The back is cut shorter but slightly shaggy still.

And is it just me, or does my hair look _shiny_?

"I feel kinda gay," I admit. "What guy dies his hair, nonetheless has it polished and _shiny_?"

"You don't look gay, but whatever. All rockers are a little gay, I suppose, anyway," Nudge replies.

"Rockers?" I ask, confused.

"Yeah – here," Iggy says, thrusting an old, black guitar at me that looks like it could produce a lot of sound.

"I've never played. At all," I point out.

"Doesn't matter; it's not like you are signed up to perform or anything. It's purely for image," Nudge replies, then ruffles my hair, making it stand up at funky angles.

"What's that for?" I yell, trying to fix the bed-head hair.

"No! Don't touch that!" Nudge yells, messing it up and yanking my hands away. "It's for effect; rock stars have that I-rolled-out-of-bed look, especially aspiring ones."

"And it's hot."

Nudge and I whirl around to look at Iggy. My eyebrow has risen to maximum height.

"I mean, that's what the girls at Starbucks say. That's why I wear my hair like this – I don't really wake up and just walk out the door-"

I raise my eyebrow.

"… okay, maybe I do, but they are the motivation behind it!"

My eyebrow is permanently fixed on my forehead.

"I didn't mean anything sexual – I swear!"

"Sure…," I say, trailing off with uncertainty, though I'm just messing with him.

I stand up, but Nudge stops me one last time.

"Wait!" she yells, and runs into Iggy's bedroom. She emerges seconds later with a pair of black vintage sunglasses.

"Hey!" Iggy exclaims. "Those are mine!"

"Not helping your previous case," I say.

Nudge shoves them on my face, and through the extremely dark lenses I can see her smiling.

"Perfect," she says. "Now you just look BA."

* * *

I won't tell you about my flight to New York, because that would probably bore you to tears, but I will tell you I am currently on the streets of Time Square, a tourist stop and break on the way to Chesternut Lane.

I stroll down the current street in my shades and new look, "looking BA" to quote Nudge. I put on the appropriate scowl for the aspiring rocker part I am to play.

If my life was a movie, this would be the part where the rock music plays and the star walks in slow mo and all the girls swoon. **(AN: (wow, I've had a lot of these this chapter) my choice: I Don't Care by Fallout Boy).**

But behind the shades is not some rebellious boy who will get the girl and the wealth and happiness in the end. Behind the shades is the worrying and plotting mind of the true Fang, trying to find and rescue Angel as soon as possible.

_I'm coming Angel._

_

* * *

_

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Far Away**_** by Jose Gonzalez and **_**Right or Wrong **_**by Rains.**

**Just noting: if I offended anyone with the gay comment, I didn't mean it offensively. I actually have a gay friend and he's awesome. I have nothing against whoever a person chooses to love.**

**Another note: I try not to put in AN's – I often find them annoying. But I felt like I just **_**had**_** to say something there.**

**Sorry if you became annoyed.**

**R&R? Inspiration is the key to success – right behind sleep – and reviews help bring it about (inspiration, not sleep – though I guess if it was really boring…)**

**Sorry, I'm ranting again.**

**So, once again, R&R?**


	21. Chapter 21

**Hello my very lovable and faithful readers!**

**This is just a filler chapter – I just got done with my exams and have started planning the next full chapter – but I think this will be funny. I'm making fun of a type of fanfiction that seems to happen with Maximum Ride. You'll understand once you start reading.**

**My disclaimer for this: I do appreciate this type of fanfiction once and a while, but it's just **_**so**_** unrealistic sometimes… actually, all the time. Oh, and I don't own Maximum Ride or it's characters.**

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_FPOV_

I had managed to acquire a cheap, small motel room for the night. The paint was peeling from the walls, there was an unidentifiable stain in the bathroom, and the old receptionist lady smiled creepily at me whenever I walked by.

But it's shelter.

Currently, I am sitting on the small, puke-colored, checkerboard-patterned comforter.

In my hands: the black guitar Nudge and Iggy gave me for my disguise.

My mission: unlock the dark secrets of this musical device and figure out how to play it.

My status: not so well.

* * *

Using the wi-fi downstairs in the lobby (which was not free technically, but that old lady just let me use it – giving me another creepy smile, I might add), I had google-magiked (yeah, it's a word… now) the instructions to playing guitar and printed them out.

First step: tune guitar.

My question: how in the world can you tell it's in tune? It all sounds bad to me.

So, I spend a good half-hour trying to make the guitar sound magically in tune before someone knocks on my door angrily.

I open the door to a red-faced woman who marches past me, picks up the guitar, turns a few knobs, and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

All in 20 seconds.

"Uh… thanks?" I say to the closed door.

I hear an aggravated sigh farther down the hall.

Ok, now that the guitar is tuned…

* * *

Step two: Practice playing simple chords.

I look at the print-out diagram of strings. On the strings are small, black dots; below the picture is the subtitle "C chord."

I slowly line up my fingers with the dots, taking a few minutes because my fingers keep slipping. But finally, _finally_, I have all my fingers in the right places.

I guess I strum now.

I run my other hand across the strings near the bottom.

And you know what?

Beautiful music came out, and I smiled and laughed, and I started playing songs like a rock star.

Hahahahaha **NO**_**.**_

In reality, the most horrifying screech splits across the room.

"_Ew. What an ugly sound. This is what a "C chord" sounds like?_" I think.

I double check that my fingers are in the right place and again strum across the guitar.

The same sound reverberates around the room.

Alrighty then. Guess I can play a "C chord."

I never hear music with this in it.

I go through the following chords on the page with the same, ugly results.

I don't understand why people think guitars sound awesome. This is the most horrible sound I've ever heard.

I look at the page again, trying to figure out what I'm missing –

When I see the page is upside down.

I've been doing the backwards chords.

Oh.

I go back to the "C chord" diagram and place my fingers _again_.

This time, when I strum the strings, a nice sound rings through the air.

And, out of pure relief, I give a small smile of triumph.

"_This isn't so bad,"_ I think.

* * *

Two hours later, I still can only play the freaking C chord.

"My fingers can't stretch that far!" I yell (again) at the inanimate paper diagrams. " I even have long fingers and I can't do that!"

With a furious grunt I chuck the guitar against the peeled-paint walls.

It hits with a _bang_ and falls with a _clang_.

Hehe, that rhymed.

….

Anyway.

I peer over the edge of the bed to look at the crumpled black object that was once a guitar.

"Crap," I say.

* * *

Half an hour and a roll of duct tape later (thank you, creepy receptionist lady), I managed to tape the guitar together.

Well, there is this one string that is not really attached… but that's ok. You don't really notice it anyway.

I carefully set the duct-tape remake on a chair.

And you know what?

It plays the most beautiful sound in the world.

Of course.

When I'm not freaking touching it, it plays music.

Ugh.

Well, what do you expect? They don't really teach Mayhem experiments to be musical geniuses.

So, I discovered I can't play the guitar.

At all.

And I am _definitely_ not testing my singing voice out.

* * *

**Credit goes to **_**High School Never Ends **_**by Bowling for Soup.**

**Like it? I thought it was funny.**

**Don't worry – the long, tense stuff is on its way. **

**But, in the mean time, R&R?**


	22. Chapter 22

**UPDATE IN AMERICA!**

**2011!**

**Happy New Year to All!**

**Ahem. Anyway…**

**I hope this turns out alright. I've been a little uninspired, so I'm not sure what will happen.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride or any of the characters, nor do I own any other businesses mentioned in the following text.**

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The sun is rising over the New York skyline as I start walking toward 245 N. Chesternut Lane, map in hand.

The map is more of a back-up than an actual guide, though.

Another quirky thing about being a bird kid is that I have a subconscious sense of direction. I could be wandering around in some random city that didn't speak English and find the McDonald's without paying attention.

If I was fantasizing about Mickey Dee's, of course.

When does a person not, though? Those salty, greasy French fries….

Ahem. Sorry. Bunny trail.

Back to MISSION ANGEL.

So I had calculated how far it would take to reach Chesternut Lane on foot from the shabby motel room I rented (stole), and I had estimated about half an hour.

I never took into account the large amount of people that would be roaming the streets on New Years.

I thought New York's reputation for "never sleeping" was bogus.

Apparently not.

Or, at least, that's what my senses are telling me as I shove my ways through two largely grotesque men in business suits eating some jelly bread dessert and a crowd of old women.

"Jeesh, _move_," I mutter under by breath as I battle past the limbs of cranky New Yorkers at 7 in the morning.

"Hey, watch it, boy!" an older businessman (who apparently hasn't had his coffee this morning) yells at me as I shove past his shoulder to cross the intersection.

I continue speed-walking (as much as possible in a hoard of people) when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I whirl around to be face to face with…

Angry, want-some-caffeine man who yelled at me earlier.

"Are you really a musician?" he asks.

What. The. Heck.

"Um… yes?" I say slowly, trying to edge through the crowd in front of me.

"Got any hits I'd know about?" he asks again.

God, _leave me alone_, creepy businessman.

"No," I reply, glancing at the relentless pack of people blocking by escape.

"What's your band's name?" he asks.

Does he not get the memo that _I don't want to talk to him_?

"Solo."

"What's your name?"

GO AWAY, CREEPY BUSINESSMAN!

"None of your business."

"That's a cool cover name."

Is he serious?

"Played anywhere cool?" he asks.

"Um…" I reply, trying to mentally urge the woman with the stroller to move.

"What style do you play?"

"Carnival."

YES! Yes, lady, go across the street!

"You mean like the cruise line? That's cool!"

"No."

Come on, lady, _cross_! There's no traffic coming!

"What's the name of a song of yours?"

"Stop asking me questions."

NO! No, you DON'T want Starbucks, lady with stroller!

"Rebellious. I like it."

Are you _serious_? Are you – NO! BAD WOMAN… WITH CHILD! BAD!

"I figured you were a punk artist. Got any tattoos?"

Ok, I've had it.

"What is your freaking _problem_? Can't you tell that I _don't want to talk to you_? Leave me _ALONE_!" I snap at him.

He looks at me for few seconds, a surprised expression on his face. Then, it turns angry, and before I have time to think "_Crap –"_

Something is thrown in my face.

Of the liquid variety.

And it's hot.

And smells like coffee.

And I'm severely ticked.

Slowly, I reach up and rub the coffee out of my closed eyes. My eyes open and I don't try to stop the murderous anger from appearing on my expression.

Inwardly, I am satisfied when he cringes.

He had an excuse when I thought he hadn't had caffeine yet… but now that I know he has – since it is all over my _face_ –

That pinhead is going down.

I give him one second before I kick him forcefully in the stomach.

I hear the air leave him in a loud _oof_ before he falls to the cement sidewalk.

Ok, maybe I shouldn't have kicked so hard…

But that pinhead threw his mocha on me.

Meh.

He deserved it.

While the crowd stops and gathers around pinhead man, I flee the scene, running down the street.

Last thing I need right now is the NYPD on my tail.

* * *

I follow the numbers on the building when the number 245 appears.

Seeing the magical number, I stop walking and look up at the street sign. CHESTERNUT LANE is visible in large, white letters on the street sign.

I glanced at the sun, sitting in the East, and compared it to my location.

Yep. Going north.

This was my building.

I look at the words hanging above the large, glass doors.

And I about burst out in laughter.

The Children's Museum? Really?

God, this is freaking ironic. An evil science lab, which _experiments_ on children, under a Children's Museum.

How in the hell did they manage to score this place?

Instead of hysterical laughter, I settled with a slight chuckle and a shake of my head.

Unbelievable.

However hilarious this Itex is, Angel is still somewhere inside.

So, I climb the white stone steps and push open the glass doors.

As soon as I am two feet inside, the sound hits me. Children screaming, parents shouting, laughter emanating from every crevice.

It's so loud, I can barely hear myself think.

Itex probably doesn't even need any soundproof walls – this chaotic sound is enough to smother any experimentation.

Next, the image of the place reaches my retinas. The colorful equipment, the multitude of play stands, paint splattered everywhere, and bubbles flying in the air.

In the center, though, resides a colossal, spiraling tower of ledges that climb to the top of the second floor. The spaces are small enough to have to crawl through, and a large amount of black mesh netting surrounds the entire structure.

If the ledges weren't so close together, I would swear they were stairs.

Wait – stairs…

Absentmindedly handing the check-in lady my mandatory five dollar fee – aka, some money I pick-pocketed from some random woman in the mob earlier – I walk to the center display.

Dozens of kids clamber across the ledges. I observe that at the top, the ledge goes in a circle, and the only way down it to go back the way you came in. I look at the bottom, where two entrances open from the black netting.

"_Where could the entrance be_?" I think to myself as I examine the structure. Of course, I could be wrong, but this feels so correct.

Then, I spot it – the center.

The entire middle of the ladder thing is empty – just an empty void.

There is a net blocking access to the center, so kids don't fall into the hole… but now, I'm believing that the entrance I'm looking for is at the bottom of that hole.

I head to the structure, ready to enter, when I notice the strange looks I am getting from the surrounding parents.

At first, I stand there confused. Why is there something wrong with…

Oh. Right.

Me. Seventeen-year-old male. Heading to play in small children playground.

Gotcha.

Scanning the room for any idea how to enter the ladder undetected, I see a blonde haired, blue-eyed woman, previously seated and watching a kid, take out her cell phone and leave the room.

What was that? What's that sound?

That, my friend, is opportunity knocking.

*knock*

Knowing I don't have much time, I scan through the mass of little kids for one that looks similar to that lady. Finally, in the seventh row, I see a blond-headed boy whose face seems identical to the woman's.

However, I am on the ground and peering through black mesh netting.

Eh. I'll go with it.

I take out a quarter in my pocket (which, I'm proud to say, I didn't steal… today) and toss it in my hand experimentally.

The trick: hit kid in the head, maneuvering around netting and ledges and other small children.

Result: kid cries.

Now, before anyone questions my sanity, just keep reading.

I glance over my shoulder one last time to see if the woman is still preoccupied.

I see her back facing me and a phone pressed up to her ear.

I'll consider that occupied.

I get ready to throw (and quickly, so no one sees me do it) when logic stops me.

What if this isn't the lady's kid? That parent is going to find it weird that I'm going up there to rescue his/her kid.

Also, could I have picked a worse kid? Me, all tan and dark haired/eyed, going to pretend that the pale, blonde haired, blue-eyed boy is my brother? Although Angel is like that to me, it's a stretch to believe. Especially with this random boy.

Well, fate, be with me.

And before anyone can notice, I chuck that quarter, as accurately as I can, toward that little boy's head.

Two seconds later, cries sound throughout the immediate area.

Yes! I mean, sorry kid, but…whatever.

"James!" I yell, pretending to call up to the boy. He doesn't respond, but I didn't expect him to, but that's alright. I place a concerned look on my face.

"Hold on! I'm coming little bro!" I yell with fake concern.

A parent gives me a look, and I explain, "It's his first time in it – he's scared of heights, but he was so determined to go on this…"

I trail off, and the parent seems satisfied, going back to whatever they were doing.

Satisfied, I almost sprint to the entrance. I have to get on my knees to even stick my head in, and I start to consider the brilliance of this plan.

My head's in when something catches the net, pulling me back. I look over my shoulder to see the guitar tip sticking through the net.

Right. Rocker prop.

I almost decide to take it off and leave it, but I realize that the guitar is my entire disguise, really; without it, I just look like an emo punk or something.

Sighing, I pull it loose, try to crouch lower (which is hard, considering six feet and four inches of bird-kid was not meant to be in a small child plaything), and climb in completely.

A few feet in, I reach my hand through the net and feel the ground in the center. It feels solid, but not as solid. It's probably a door, but unlike the rest of the floor, there is no cement under it.

I climb up a few levels, getting me to level five. I decide I better do a test run, first, before I go any higher. I take out my pocket knife and slit open a hole in the netting. With much struggle, I manage to get the duct-taped guitar off my back and into my hands. Then, without hesitation, I drop the guitar along the edge of the netting.

The guitar lands with a thud.

However, I think I just saw the patch give a little. That door can be broken through with enough force.

Also, the thud confirms my earlier theory; there is no concrete under that patch. Which means it's a door.

Quickly, knowing I don't have much time before people start to get suspicious, I scale the ledges, which is much easier without a guitar on my back.

In less than a minute, I am at the top of the climbing tower – level 15, more than two stories off the ground. I could see how, to a little kid, this could be a scary place to be. But to a bird-kid who's spent a lot of his time in the sky, this is nothing.

I take out my knife again and cut a large hole in the netting. I pull myself to the edge of the ledge (haha – that rhymed) and perch in front of the hole.

It now strikes me that if I am wrong, and there is no door down there (and instead, cement), I will not break through. Instead, I'll be landing in a lot a pain, unable to stop my fall effectively since I can't whip out my wings in this small space.

Well, I have to try.

I realize maybe I should be invisible. It would attract a little less attention.

Of course, a giant hole appearing in the middle of the climbing tower from nothing with a loud _boom_ won't attract attention at all.

Sarcasm, people.

By the time I finish that last piece of logic, however, my invisibility decided to switch on.

Well, all set.

Here goes nothing.

I leap off the ledge in the vast void.

The air rushes past me as I keep free-falling, and as I near the bottom, I remind myself to reach out to grab my guitar if I make it through the floor.

Oh, and my mind is screaming _BAD IDEA_, but it's a little late now.

I am literally two feet away from the ground as my mind screams "_HOLY CRAP –_"

And with a loud _BANG_, my body lands on the floor!

Oh God, that hurt! Ow, ow, OW!

"Damn it!" I hiss, still invisible – luckily…this is embarrassing – but in great pain.

I remembered to grab the freaking guitar though.

God this sucks –

And the floor gave way, right then, causing me to fall through butt-first to the lower level.

But not just one level lower.

No.

_Three_.

And I cannon-ball onto white, tile floors.

"Fuck it," I hiss in pain, the impact having jarred all the way up my spine from my behind.

But hey, I am still invisible!

Pain-stakingly (which sounds wimpy, but my tailbone hurts like hell – _you_ try falling onto concrete-hard floors – twice – several stories high and tell me you wouldn't be crying your eyes out) I rose to my feet, dusting off my invisible body.

Luckily, the skin contact with the guitar seemed to turn it invisible – something I didn't know I could do.

That's cool.

When I look up, though, my mind is removed from my own powers.

In front of me is a long hallway of white walls, white floors, and several steel doors.

The label at the end of the hallway: ITEX: SAVING MAN-KIND THROUGH SCIENCE.

Sub-heading: EXPERIMENTATION LABS.

I am in the right place.

And the worst place.

But I made it in.

_And I'm coming Angel_.

* * *

**That's all for this chapter! Hopefully I can update once more this weekend!**

**And remember! Don't forget to tickle Herald, the review button! He likes it!**

**R&R?**


	23. Chapter 23

**Ok. Continuation. I hope.**

**Disclaimer: I own little. Especially not Maximum Ride.**

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_FPOV_

I run down the corridor as quietly as possible. And with only three hallways on this level, I'm surprised that there are _no freaking stairs_.

No joke.

There are nada stairs.

Just 3 hallways and 26 doors.

No, I didn't count. But all the doors have numbers on them, and the largest number I have seen is 26.

Obviously, the stairs must be in one of the rooms.

However, I can't just stroll into 26 rooms to find the staircase.

"_Maybe this is the only floor_," my conscience argues.

No… for as big a corporation as Itex seems, this can't be it.

The entrance was a puzzle. It makes sense that the rest would be, too.

This puzzle, though, better be solved quickly, for I don't know how long I can stay invisible. It is likely Itex has security cameras everywhere.

You don't just build an underground experimentation lab underground for kicks and giggles.

Come on, mind, think!

"_I just need to take a step back – think 3-D," _I rationalize, "_See all the possibilities."_

So I close my eyes and try to picture the hallways and doors and find some magic picture.

3 hallways: two going horizontal and a vertical hallway connecting them.

26 doors, all arranged in numerical order.

Wait a second… the shape of the hallways.

It's an **I**.

And 26 doors…

I start counting in my head.

9! I is 9!

I run back down the corridor (silently, of course) and stop in front of door 9.

This is it. One step closer to Angel.

I slowly, _slowly_ turn the metal door knob and slowly, _slowly_ inch the door open. Before I open it very far, I peer in.

And across the room is a door with the words STAIRWELL above it.

Target acquired, team.

I open the door as much as I dare to and slip in, making sure to shut the door quietly. I turn around to face the room.

And almost have a heart attack.

A fat, squat, aging man in a white lab coat is sitting at a computer, studying the screen.

Crap.

My teeth grinding in anxiety, I practically tip-toe across the white tile, hoping to God I do not trip or squeak my shoes or have the incredible urge to fart loudly.

"_Almost there,_" I think.

Unfortunately, my life is never simple.

Right next to the door is a keypad with the words LAB ID NUMBER REQUIRED blinking on a green screen above it.

Double crap.

I turn around to look at the Whitecoat man, still studying his computer, the occasional bleep going off.

On his person, however, there are no visible signs of identification. No clip-on tag or embroidery or anything. Just the words "_Dr. Sharthal, Experimentation Analyzer_."

Breathing as shallowly and soundlessly as possible, I creep over to his desk, hoping to find some evidence of a lab ID number.

On his desk is an assortment of thick, white reports, some of which have grotesque pictures attached to them of thin, starving people, ranging from green, scaly skin to mouths the size and shape of a shark's. In the corner is a picture of Mr. Old, Balding, and Evil here with (assumedly) his wife and kids, all of which (except him) have brown hair, blue eyes, and friendly smiles.

How come all the evil people have nice families? It's not fair.

But, you know, life isn't really fair.

Especially for me.

Not to complain.

Nope. Not me. Must be you – yes, _you_, the one eating Fruit Loops in the corner. Stop whining.

…

Anyway.

His desk doesn't have the ID I'm looking for. Which sucks.

But I glance at his computer screen over his shoulder, not even breathing at this point so as not to be heard, when I see something.

It was the ID number, flashing across the screen in rainbow colors. Then I cunningly rescued Angel, with the aid of some friendly scientists who apologized for being so mean, got some Ben & Jerry's and lived happily ever after.

Psh, **NO**.

What I _did_ see was not a number, nor a paper being analyzed.

Nope.

It was _Dungeons and Dragons_.

Except instead of dungeons and dragons, the action occurs in white rooms with lab scientists and some mutants. I vaguely recognize some experiments that look like the Erasers from Mayhem.

So it is more like _Experimentation Labs and Mutants_. But still.

This dude is not doing his job and should get a pay reduction.

Honestly, I had never even played _D & D; _I had only seen Iggy play it at his house when I picked Angel up one day. He was trying to teach Angel the basics of conquering an enemy_._

But this game (though offensive to Avian Americans like me) intrigues me, because, truthfully…

I'm a boy. Boys like action and fighting. Especially when one of the mutants has an AK-47.

So I am captivated for a few seconds due to my male instincts.

Then, I notice the player name on the screen.

_SCIGUY97256_

Which, call me crazy, seems like an ID number.

So I try to memorize the five numbers and creep back to the keypad.

LAB ID NUMBER REQUIRED flashes across the screen, so I hit the first number.

_9_.

_Beep!_

Shit.

I whirl around, praying Bald, Aging, and Evil has not noticed the beep over his game.

When I see his face still concentrating on the screen, I let out a silent breath I had been holding.

I spot the speaker at the top of the keypad and smother it with my left hand before daring to press the next number.

_7_

A muted beep sounds, but it is very faint, so I continue on.

_2. 5. 6._

The pad gives a triple chirp at the end, muted by my hand, and the door swings open silently, thank the Lord.

I am two steps in the door way when the keypad practically screams, "Welcome, Dr. Sharthal."

I freeze.

Crap. I'll be noticed now.

And sure enough, as I peer over my shoulder I see Mr. Aging and Evil standing up and facing my direction.

But instead of the "Who's there?" I expected…

"Hey! You! What do you think you're doing!"

What?

I should be still invisible –

Looking down, though, I can clearly see my hands in front of me.

How long has my melanin been back?

Without wasting any more time and no longer bothering to be silent, I sprint down the stairs as fast as I can, pushing into my bird-kid speed.

"Security! We have a trespasser in the building! Code 975!" I hear Sharthal scream into a walkie-talkie, and soon his heavy footsteps can be heard following me down the stairs.

I see the bottom of the staircase and decide to take a shortcut, leaping over the last six steps to the floor by extending my wings a little to catch a drift.

I land in a sort-of crouch before springing up and sprinting forward.

Already the guards are starting to flood this floor, running around in search of me. I completely fly (not literally, in this instance) past a guard whose back was turned, and his hair flies from the wind I create. I can't help but smirk at his bamboozled expression.

Finally, he leaps into action, shouting, "I've spotted the trespasser! Corridor 1, doors 1-8!"

The next guard is prepared and tries to grab my arm. He underestimates my strength, what with me seemingly human, and I easily break his hold. But it delays me enough for another guard to come, and he grabs my forearms, a stronger grip this time. I knee his groin, and he releases my arms, bending over in pain and groaning.

The other guard aims a punch for my face, which I catch a few inches from my face.

These guards are really ticking me off; I can't even begin to search for Angel or the next stairwell with these hooligans hanging on me.

I glare at the guard, and he shrinks slightly. Then, I whip my other fist around and slam the side of his head.

He collapses to the ground.

Fang: 1

Guards: 0

By this time, another guard has arrived from level above and the guard who shouted my whereabouts to the world have arrived, leaving me surrounded by two and a half guards (the one I kneed earlier is aware, but still wheezing, so I'm not sure how much a threat he is).

Wheezing man is closest, so while he is bent over, I karate chop his back, causing him to release his spine and his head to flip up. As soon as his chin is lifted I uppercut it, making the man arch dangerously backwards, still arched. I sweep-kick his feet from under him and he falls backwards onto his back. He lies there, moaning; I'm sure his back really hurts now.

Fang: 2

Guards: 0

Shouting guard man is staying back, like a smart man. The other guard is cocky, though, and he approaches quickly. He throws a punch toward the side of my head, and I prepare to stop it, when I feel a kick to my side.

Clever.

Fang: 2

Guards: 1

But now he has to deal with a pissed Fang.

I play along, knowing he won't deal serious injuries to me by the time I can play my card. I place a pained expression on my face and clutch my side, bending slightly. He smirks like the cocky idiot he is. Shouting man is getting courageous and approaches closer.

Cocky Idiot uppercuts the side of my ribs, which hurts, but I've had worse. My breath does escape me slightly.

I bend over, pretending to be harmed severely by the blows. He buys it, and does what I want him to do: kick is leg at me.

Cocky people, once they think they've won, always do the lowly kick. It's like kicking a dog to them. But cocky people always forget their cocky nature makes them predictable, and predictability makes you weak, defeat-able. Predictability can always be defeated by the unexpected.

So, following the theory, as soon as that leg extends close enough to me, I grab it.

"What the-" Cocky Idiot tries to say, but I interrupt by twisting his leg, causing his body to twist. And since he is off-balance now, he falls forward.

I quickly rise from my fake position and show my true emotion: pure, unadulterated annoyance and anger.

While Cocky is down I grab his arm and pull hard. I feel more than hear the pop, and I know I dislocated his arm from his shoulder. He moans in pain, and I take his head in both heads and slam his forehead into the tile floor, knocking him unconscious.

Cocky people also have the tendency to re-enter fights if they are still conscious, which can bite you in the bite. So unconsciousness is the only way to go.

And oh yeah – did I mention all I just did happened in the span of 7 seconds?

That's double points for me.

Fang: 4

Guards: 1

Shouting Guy is freaking out, and he now reaches for his radio to call for back-up. Not being close enough to directly punch it out of his hands, I release my wings slightly to give me a boost in my next move. Using a flap of my wings, I leap forward, hitch-kicking the radio out of his hand.

Of course, Cocky Idiot's limp hand is extended out too far and my one-footed landing is wronged slightly. My ankle twists in the wrong direction as I land on his hand.

Ankle: twisted. But I have run on far worse – this is nothing. I've probably broken bones in Cocky's hand, though.

Before Shouting Guy can re-grab the radio, I use my other foot to stop the life out of it. It crumbles and sparks before it dies permanently, going to radio heaven, I suppose.

And now that I'm close enough, I pull out my cool move. I grab the guy by his shirt, and with my other hand I place two fingers at the crease in the back of his neck.

It only takes a few seconds before Shouting's eyes flutter and he crumbles to the floor, unconscious.

Oh, Star Trek, I love you – teaching me fighting moves.

Television is underrated, as far as education is concerned. Look how well I grew up under its influence? Kicking bad-guy behind for mankind.

I'm freaking inspirational, that's what.

Before security gets a word of its fallen comrades, I start examining the floor's layout. Some curved hallways, this time, and three straight ones: one vertical, one horizontal, and one kind-of diagonal.

I close my eyes and try to picture the shape it makes. It takes a few moments before it hits me.

_R_.

I do the math in my head, counting backwards this time. 17.

I run to the door before I realize I don't even know where Angel is. She could be on any of these floors, in any of the 26 rooms.

Except 9 on floor 1. 'Cause that's where Bald, Aging, and Evil is.

I open the door to room 17, not bothering on stealth anymore.

And, with my luck, the room has a huge table.

Seated at it are 6 Erasers.

Triple – wait, sextuple – crap.

This will be a real fight.

"What are you doing in here, emo?" an Eraser growls, smiling. "Did corporate send us a snack?"

"Actually, I'm gathering pigs for slaughter – which one of you wants to go first?"

The Eraser looks momentarily frightened, but another Eraser smacks him across the head.

"He's lying, stupid; they don't do that!" he scolds.

If it is possible for an Eraser to look sheepish, Eraser 1 manages it.

During this bicker-fest I had started to inch toward the stairwell, but Eraser 3 realizes what is going on.

"Stop acting like old women! The punk's escaping!"

With that, the six Erasers lung at me.

I take advantage of my position by the wall and allow the Erasers to charge at me in their pack. I edge a little closer to the wall, and just as the Erasers are almost on top of me, I unfurl my wings completely and shoot straight up into the air.

"Whaaaa?" Eraser 1 gapes.

Then they all crash into the wall, smacking their foreheads.

Fang: 5

Erasers/Guards: 1

The Erasers remain momentarily stunned, then Eraser 2 seems to snap out of it.

"It's a hybrid! Remember what the Director told us about when got the blonde girl? A boy with wings would be coming!" Eraser 2 snaps.

"Don't let him go anywhere!" Eraser 4 orders. "He's worth a lot."

I don't have very high to fly, so I'm contracting my legs in as much as possible, but an Eraser manages to snatch me out of the air by catching my foot and yanks down.

Hard.

But he doesn't stop there – he continues to throw me into the ground, and my head smacks the ground with a _boom_.

For a moment, I see stars, and pain courses through my skull.

I'll have a headache later.

Fang: 5

E/G: 2

Of course, with experiences like mine, you start to learn how to take advantage of every position.

With my non-captured foot, I kick out to the Eraser's knee, and when my foot is released, I know I probably just broke his patella.

I flip onto my back and pull in my wings some, trying to protect them, since most likely they will be my escape mechanism. I scissor kick the nearest Eraser's ankles and he loses his balance, falling to the ground.

I arch my back and spring up onto my feet, knowing I'll have better opportunities off the ground. As soon as my face gets up, I feel a punch barely miss my cheek, the air brushing my skin as the punch flew by.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I instantly know someone's behind me. I jump into the air, tucking in my legs and spinning 180 degrees, then I release a foot in a high fan-kick as soon as I'm around. My foot collides with the side of the head of an Eraser, and the force of the kick propels him to the wall, where he hits his head hard and slumps to the ground, unmoving.

Fang: 6

E/G: 2

One down, five to go.

I strongly clap my hands over the ears of the next Eraser, and he howls in pain. While he is distracted I give three swift punches to his stomach, and the air leaves him. I punch the side of his head and he falls down, out of breath and out of consciousness.

Fang: 7

E/G: 2

I feel a thick fist connect with the side of my ribs, and I stumble sideways, clutching my side. I whip my head in the direction of the punch to see an Eraser grinning, and soon I feel why.

Another punch lands, connecting with my upper arm and sure to leave a nice bruise.

I am stuck between two Erasers, like a feathered punching bag. I reach to punch the Eraser on the right, but I am given a strong hit between my wings. I let out a grunt, because _damn_, it hurt.

Fang: 7

E/G: 4

If I didn't want to be a human – well, human-avian – hacky sack, I better find a way to deal with both of them at the same time.

I grab both the Eraser's forearms tightly, and setting my jaw, I count to 1 –

Then yank as hard as I can toward me.

I feel the arms dislocate, and while the Erasers are close, I grab the back of both their dense skulls and collide their heads together.

When a _BANG!_ resounds, I wonder if Eraser's heads are just empty space with thick shells after all.

The effect is the desired one, however, and they collapse to the floor.

Fang: 9

E/G: 4

"Security – block access to Room 13, floor 3, got it? We have the human-avian hybrid locked in combat on Floor 2, Room 17. He is coming for the blonde child. No access – to anyone. Hear me?" One of the two remaining Erasers commands to a radio.

"Sorry to intrude on your convo," I say, right before grabbing the radio and snapping it in half.

I swear the Eraser's eye just twitched.

"Cocky little birdie, you still have to go through me and Joe!"

I can't help but laugh. Joe? They have names?

"You're Erasers, and your name is Joe?" I mock to the other Eraser.

"Shut up, bird-brain!" he replies, angry.

"What's yours, Phillip?" I ask the first Eraser, smirking.

"None of your business!" the Eraser yells.

"Funny – that seems to be my name too," I say, remembering the angry businessman.

Then I punch the Eraser in the nose.

Blood erupts from his sinus cavities as his nose snaps. However, the Eraser ignores it and instead kicks me in the stomach, catching me by surprise.

_Oof!_

See that? That was all the air in my lungs leaving my body.

Joe reaches out and swipes at my back with his claws. I use the momentum from the Eraser's kick to fall farther down, feeling the claws graze my back but tear at the edge of my left wing.

Fang: 9

E/G: 5

Pain is just a message. Pain is just a _freaking_ telephone-operator-consistent message.

And I will block this call.

I straighten up, furious.

This fight needs to end.

I karate chop the side of Joe's neck with all the strength I can muster, and Joe falls to the floor.

Unconscious?

Not sure.

I stomp on his head.

Unconscious?

Most definitely.

Fang: 10

E/G: 5.

I whirl to face the last Eraser, and I am surprised when I see him standing there, doing nothing.

I study him, frozen, not sure what's going on.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" the Eraser asks.

"I tend not to remember assholes if I can," I reply, inwardly confused but keeping a cold expression.

He sighs. "I guess they have changed me a lot – I didn't expect you to."

Then, he morphs back into his human phase.

And in the growling, bulky Eraser's place is a scrawny, young, pale boy I'd know anywhere.

"Ari?" I ask breathily, completely surprised. "I thought you escaped…"

"I wasn't too good at hiding," Ari responds in his young, broken voice, so different from his deep Eraser voice I'd heard only moments before. "They found me three towns away, starving. I didn't have any strength to fight them off. I thought I was going to Mayhem again. But there took me here, to Itex, and 'upgraded' me."

"I'm sorry," I say, not knowing what else to say. I am still in shock.

"'s not your fault," he says.

Then, before I can react, he punches me in the eye.

"What the hell!" I yell, clutching my left eye.

"That's for breaking my nose, moron," Ari says, an angry tone in his voice.

Then, he smiles, and pulls a card out of his pocket.

"And this," Ari continues, "is for being the only person to ever help me out."

I grab the card and see the words ACCESS CARD written on it.

I look at Ari, confused.

"This is to get into your little sis's room. Number 13. There will be a guard down. She's pretty advanced in kung-fu, but she has some ribs that were once broken. Punch there, she'll be handicapped, and you can knock her out easy."

I place my hand on Ari's shoulder and give it a squeeze.

"Thanks, kid," I say, giving him a nod of approval. "You're alright."

Ari beams, and I'm glad I said that.

I walk toward the door, but Ari stops me once more.

"Oh, and Fang? Watch out. Your mom works on that floor, and I wouldn't be surprised if she's rigged out some security traps on the rooms."

My chest feels like it just got punched, and my veins seem filled with ice.

"My mother is here?" I ask, dread coursing through my thoughts.

"Yeah. And Itex isn't like Mayhem…"

Ari goes to the table and sits down in a chair before finishing the thought.

"…It's worse."

With that, I turn to the stairs and descend to the final level.

_I'm coming, Angel_.

* * *

**I'm ending the chapter here, since this is a freaking long chapter.**

**But I'll try to finish this action, because after tonight I won't be updating for two weeks, about.**

**Enjoy the chapters. And don't be afraid to review this chapter! I like your thoughts.**

**More on the way (hopefully)!**

**Oh! And I forgot to add the song dedication to the last chapter, so here is the song for Ch. 22:**

_**Take (the acoustic version)**_** by Gavin Mikhail. And also **_**West Coast Smoker**_** by Fall Out Boy.**

**For this chapter:**

_**Sing**_** by My Chemical Romance and for the chase/fight scenes, place the song **_**We No Speak Americano**_** by Yolanda Be Cool & Dcup in the background – it makes the scenes ****very**** entertaining.**

**R/R?**


	24. Chapter 24

**Ch. 24!**

**(The Disclaimer still applies)**

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_FPOV_

When I exit the stairwell, I wonder what is wrong. The entire level is dark except for the dim light every few yards. There is only one hallway, which curves in a U shape.

I'm getting the heebie-jeebies here. Even my silent footsteps seem to thunder in the unreal quiet.

But I spot the security guard.

She is residing at the end of the left curve, staring out straight in front of her. She has a thin, muscular build and dark brown hair, and her stance is anything but relaxed.

I see what Ari meant. She'll be a fighter.

Might as well have some fun with this.

I extend my wings and leap into the air, soaring horizontal and fast in her direction.

My silent glide has not caught her attention, so as soon as I am almost above her, I say, "Boo."

Her head snaps up, and her eyes widen.

Right before I snap-kick her head from above.

As her body folds in half, I flip over in the air and touchdown to the ground, pulling in my wings.

Guard Woman has recovered quickly, though, and she is swinging a punch at my head as soon as I land.

I block and try to swing a punch to her left side, but she blocks it with a reflexive-fast speeds. She's used to having to defend her injury, I see.

Somehow, I have to get her to voluntarily open up her side so I can attack.

We parry with punches, mechanically blocking and fisting as if it were choreography. While her mind is absorbed with my hands, I break predictability with the unexpected.

I knee _her_ groin.

I'll tell you now, it's not as effective on girls as guys, but it is effective enough.

Once predictability is broken, you have to move quickly. You can't give them time to react, or you'll be back in heated combat.

As soon as she is bent over, I uppercut her chin while instantaneously side punching her left temple. With that, I kick at her right thigh to create delaying soreness, then pause.

Deliberately slowing down my movements, I catch her eye by swinging a punch at her _right_ side.

As I hoped she would, she immediately blocks by swing, focusing on the hand-combat again.

Using this distraction, I roundhouse kick her _left_ side, which has the injured ribs.

When I hear the crack, I know this fight won't last much longer.

Guard Woman collapses, gasping in pain has her previously healed ribs break again. Her mind is fuzzy with pain, and I place my two fingers on the back of her neck.

"Night-night," I mutter, and a second later she is slumped on the floor, unconscious.

I pull out the access card Ari gave me and insert it into the door slot. Door 13 opens silently, only darkness appearing.

With dread in my stomach, I enter the room.

I jump as the door shuts behind me, removing all remaining light, leaving me in complete darkness.

Suddenly, lights flash on, momentarily blinding me. I bring my hand to cover my eyes.

After a few seconds I remove my hand, blinking rapidly as I try to adjust to my surroundings.

In front of me is not an experimentation room with cages.

No.

It's a huge, outdoor maze.

What?

A blue sky shines above me, and grass carpets the ground. Eight foot tall walls create a maze impossible to see over.

Unless, you know, you have wings.

I extend my wings and leap into the air.

Then hit my head and fall to the ground, moaning.

What in the world did I hit my head on?

I look up and see the blue sky, same as always. I stand back up and jump up, extending my hand up.

And to my surprise, my fingers come in contact with a hard surface.

Huh?

I use my wings to hover a few feet off the ground and run my hand along the invisible roof.

"_This is a ceiling_," I realize. "_I'm still inside. It's a trick._"

Guess I have to solve this the human way….

…by running around like a mouse.

"Angel!" I shout, hoping she might be somewhere in the maze. I run down a hallway, only to run into a dead end. I turn around and run the opposite direction.

"ANGEL!" I shout again, even louder.

"Fang!" I hear, sounding relatively close.

"Angel! Where are you?" I yell, hope and excitement coursing through my body, adrenaline taking over.

"Right in front of you!" I hear her yell, and I turn in the direction of the voice.

I was just there, though. She wasn't there.

"No, you're not, goof. Where are you?" I say again, confused.

"Fang, I'm right in front of you. Just take five steps forward!" she says, sounding agonized.

If I take five steps, I'll be running into a wall.

I start to go around the wall when Angel shouts again.

"No, Fang! Don't go sideways! Just five steps in front!"

"I can't, Ange – there is a thick, eight foot wall in front of me that I can't walk through," I say, my hope slipping away. Is her voice just an illusion? A trick?

"Fang… there's no wall in front of you. Just empty space."

Huh?

"Angel, we're in a maze – there is a wall in front of me. In fact, there are walls everywhere."

Silence. Then…

"Fang… we're not in a maze. I'm in cage. Can't you come over and let me out?" Angel says, sounding small and scared.

What? No maze?

"It's right in front of me, Ange…," I say, confused.

"If it is, it's imaginary," Angel says.

It doesn't exist? What…

Suddenly, Ari's words fill my head.

"_Oh, and Fang? Watch out. Your mom works on that floor, and I wouldn't be surprised if she's rigged out some security traps on the rooms."_

Traps… traps!

This is just a trap – a mind game to confuse anyone who tries to interfere.

I've been running around in circles like an idiot for the past minute, not running through a maze.

It's not real.

"_It's not real_," I repeat in my head, closing my eyes. "_I'm in an evil lab with Angel."_

The words repeat in my head over and over, trying to steal my mind from the illusion.

_It's not real…_

_It's NOT real…_

_It's not REAL…_

_IT'S NOT REAL!_

When I open my eyes, I see white walls and floors.

And Angel, in a cage a few feet away.

"Angel…," I say, smiling her special smile. "Angel!"

"Fang!" she exclaims, smiling hugely.

I unlock her cage and pull her out, not letting her touch the ground before I encase her in the world's biggest hug.

Look in up in Guinness. I'm there. WORLD'S BIGGEST HUG.

And you thought I wasn't a hugger…

I'm not. Don't touch me.

Angel is… the exception, though.

I can feel Angel's tears on my shoulder as she cries in relief. I stroke her head and utter comforting sounds.

"I'm here, Ange," I say. "And I plan to keep it that way forever."

Angel raises her head, showing puffy blue eyes and a huge smile, then plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek.

"Ew!" I shout in fake digust. "Gross! Cooties!"

Angel giggles, and I tickle her side, still smiling like a goof.

"Come on, Ange – let's get the heck out of here."

"Aye-aye, Captain Fang!" Angel giggles, saluting me.

"You fruit loop," I say, then turn to leave.

Before I can reach the door, it opens with a _BANG!_

And in the doorway is the last person I ever wanted to see.

Three guesses.

No, it's not Barney.

Yes! You in the back, you got it!

It's my mother. You know, the evil one who abused and experimented on me for years? That one.

And she looks pretty PO'd.

"Where do you think you're going, Fangie?" she asks, smirking.

"Away from you," I reply.

"But won't you stay for dinner?" she snarls out, pulling out a wicked set of blades.

"Sorry. I don't accept dinner invites from psychos," I say, setting Angel down and behind me

"That's a shame," she says, edging closer. "I was going to make mincemeat. Oh well. Guess I'll make mincemeat out of you."

She throws a knife at my forehead at sickening speeds.

With no time to move, I grab the knife, with the point a few inches from my nose. Immediately, the blade cuts my hand and it starts to bleed, a steady flow of crimson flowing over the silver blade.

Better to have a bleeding hand than a bleeding brain, I figure.

But who knows? My priorities could be messed up.

I flip the blade around, the point facing Mom.

She wants a weapon fight?

She'll get one.

Mom and I shuffle side to side, neither wanting to make the first move. Also, I'm trying to block Mom's path to Angel.

Finally, she's had enough, and she lunges, blade poised.

I grab her wrist, directing the blade sideways, and twist her wrist until she releases the blade. Simultaneously, I uppercut her sternum, and she contracts slightly, her air hissing out of her body.

"Not…," she wheezes out, throwing a punch at my chest, which I block. She then throws a punch with her other arm and hits my kidney, which makes me grunt in pain.

"…Nice," she finishes, smirking.

What. A. Horrible. Mother.

I am leaning sideways, contracting to stop the pain from my abdomen, and I take my fist and punch her kneecap, disabling her balance.

Mom falls over, cursing, and I get rid of the knife I had in my hand by stabbing it into her thigh.

"Fuck!" Mom screams, looking at the blood oozing down her leg.

"Language," I say in a mocking tone.

"Think you're the big shit on campus, don't you?" Mom growls out, standing up to her full height. "Well Itex has more toys to play with than knives, boy. And I love to play."

And before my eyes, my mom transforms from her human shape -

-Into what must be a cheetah hybrid.

My eyes are the size of dinner plates, now, flabbergasted at this new side of my mom.

"Come here, birdie," she growls in a shrill, frightening voice. "Momma wants a snack!"

I whip my wings out and launch into the air as high as possible, barely missing her claws from hitting my face.

Google crap. She's a hybrid now, two?

I drop behind her, giving her my iciest glare.

Which she reciprocates.

Guess I got it from somewhere.

Then, I see them – the discarded knives a few feet to the right. If I could just get them…

I look at Mom, studying her movements.

We are both still for a moment.

Then I spring to the right, lunging low to grab the knives.

"No you don't!" Mom shrieks, furious, having spotted my goal.

My hand is literally _inches _from the blades.

Suddenly, fire erupts in my side.

I look for a second at my mother, and she is smiling with blood on her new claws.

My blood.

My side isn't on fire.

It's been shredded.

But I grab the knives and sweep-kick Mom's feet from under her, and she falls to the ground.

Ignoring the stabbing pain in my side, I leap on top of Mom and hold a knife to her throat, centimeters away.

Mom starts laughing.

"You can't kill me, Fang," she says, hysterically laughing. "I'm your mother! And you still love me, underneath it all. You love me!"

"I _hate_ you!" I yell, fury coursing through me. "I _HATE_ YOU!"

Yet, I couldn't bring that knife down on her throat.

Mom smiles wickedly, knowing she is won.

"I knew it," she says, her grin growing evilly. "You love –"

Then, I stab the knives, all three, into her stomach.

Mom's smile falls away, and she starts choking on the pain. Blood oozes out her abdomen.

"You have the option to die. Let's see if you make it," I say, a deadness filling my heart.

I turn to Angel, who is standing away from this all, frozen. Her eyes are wide with fear.

"Angel...," I coo, slowly walking toward her. "Angel… I won't hurt you ."

She seems to snap out of it, running into my arms and crying. "No-o-o, F-fang, I'm not sc-c-ared of y-y-you…Mommy… she… she… she tried to kill you!" she exclaims, sobbing.

"I'm alright, though," I say, holding her. "And let's get out of here."

With that, I run out the room and up the stairs.

At the hole on the first floor, I bend my knees and leap as far as I can up, using my wings a little to give more air. I land on the edge of the hole inside the climbing tower's center.

"Oh my God, Jeffrey, look!" a parent exclaims, pointing at Angel and me.

Then, all the kids notice and start shouting excitedly.

"It's a superman!"

"So cool!"

"Can he shoot lasers out his eyes?"

While the chatter grows louder, I move Angel to hang onto my back (and the guitar – which is _still_ there after all this) and start to climb the netting to the top.

At the top, I reach into my pocket and pull out my handy pocketknife, slicing the top of the netting away.

I reach around and pull Angel to the front.

"Hold on, girlie – this will be the ride of your life," I tell Angel.

I pull myself out the hole in the netting enough to release my wings.

The collected audience below all gasps and whispers.

Then I give a hard thrust of my wings and shoot like a rocket straight up.

Towards the glass ceiling.

"_Not for much longer,_" I think.

I duck Angel's head and brace myself for the impact.

_Shatter!_

The glass falls apart at impact, falling down like dangerous rain, I flap the glass shards off my wings and soar away from the Children's Museum, Itex, and immediate danger.

* * *

A few minutes of soaring later, the world starts spinning.

"_Just a few more minutes and I'll be at the motel. Then I can fix this wound in my side_," I think.

But the world starts tipping dangerously, and I look down to see almost my entire side soaked in blood.

"_Shit_," I think.

"Fang, why are we dropping?" Angel asks.

"Angel, I need you to guide me to the nearest rooftop, alright? I'm getting dizzy," I say, trying not to show the fear I'm starting to feel.

"Ok," she answers.

She tells me to fly a few more feet forward then land. I make it the few feet forward and I start to descend…

Then, I black out momentarily as pain flashes through my side.

"Fang!" Angel screams.

We fall the six feet down to the roof top, landing on the concrete roof on my back.

But I just can't stop there, can I?

No, I have to rebound.

The rebound causes me to let go of Angel, which will probably help her more.

Then, I flip over and land on my front side, skidding a little before stopping completely.

Immediately, my blood starts to ooze onto the concrete.

"Fang…," Angel says, sounding small and scared.

"Call for help Ange," I say softly, my world blacking out.

"Okay, Fang," she says, frightened but a trooper. She pulls out my phone from my pocket.

"And take the freaking guitar off my back, please," I tell her.

She complies, taking it off gently.

"And whatever you do, _don't _call Mom," I say, giving her a small, pained smile.

Angel, though crying now, gives me a small laugh and dials a number.

"Hello? Max, this is Angel. We have a problem…"

* * *

**Like it? Love it? Tell me!**

**Dedicated to **_**Sing**_** by My Chemical Romance.**

**See y'all later.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Hola, readers! I'm back from my two-week hold-up. I hope.**

**I'll warn you now – I'm having a bit of writer's block. So if this chapter turns out short, you know why. I just need inspiration to hit me.**

**Chapter 25!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride or any of the characters.**

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_FPOV_

A thousand mumbled sounds break through the silent darkness I have been swimming in. Chaotic voices fight for dominance inside my mind, and a beeping is steadily growing louder and faster, building until it is the only thing heard –

_BEEP BEEP BEEP – _

"Fang?"

I snap my eyes open to the sound of an unfamiliar voice, breaking through the siren.

The beep subsides into the background, steady and quick.

I vaguely recognize that it matches the rhythm of my own enhanced heart.

"Fang? Can you hear me?"

I can hear the voice just fine, but I try to sort out the vast array of images swirling in front of my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to sort out the shapes in front of me.

"Fang? Can you see me?"

"Give me a second!" I snap, annoyed at the persistent questioning.

The voice doesn't respond, so I take the momentary pause to refocus and catalog my surroundings.

Now that my eyes have adjusted to the light, I see I'm in a very white room. A monitor is situated on my right, a green line spiking to the sound of the beeping.

A heart monitor.

Similar lines run beneath it, spewing numbers for a purpose I have no clue of.

Struggling mutant teenager, remember? Not pre-med college student.

On my person is an ugly, green gown with no closed backside (I can tell, though I'm lying in a bed).

Typical hospital garb.

Wait, hospital? Crap.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP!_

Stupid monitor.

I force myself to calm down. I'll freak out about the wings, scars, social services, and removing all evidence of my existence once I'm not connected to a machine that _shows my every freaking anxiety attack_.

On my left is a tray holding an array of bags: a few are clear, and two are a dark red color.

"What's that?" I say, pointing to the dark red bags. I try to sit up to point to them better.

"Don't –" the voice (which I see now belongs to a doctor) starts.

Then the room spins around me.

I fall back onto the bed as the world spins crazy-fast around me. It's like riding a really fast roller coaster and trying to keep track of the world around you.

Trying to stop this nauseating spinning, I grip the rails of the hospital bed, hoping to create some stability.

If anything, it actually makes it worse. The strain of my muscle seems to bring on a sense of breathlessness.

I feel like I can't get any air… like holding my ground is exhausting me.

Of course, my dizziness makes me hold on tighter, and silently I pray for this to end.

"Fang! You need to calm down!" doctor-man says frantically.

"_I'm trying!_" I scream in my head.

By now, I can hear the monitor distantly screaming, and my breath is coming fast and short.

Hyperventilating.

As black enters the corners of my vision, I wonder if I'm dying. Is this the end?

"Get her in here!" a voice calls, but it's like it's underwater.

I lie on this hospital bed, feeling like I'm lost in a stormy sea… that's lacking oxygen.

You know it's bad when my analogies start sucking.

…don't comment.

Suddenly, a voice breaks through my internal storm, and I feel a hand on my arm.

"Fang? Calm down. I'm here. Try to relax."

"_Max_," my subconscious tells me.

Her hand is sending sparks through my arm, but her voice reassures me. Surely I'm not dying if she's acting all calm, right?

Fighting past my internal hurricane, I manage to release my hands from their death-grip on the bed rails.

….Maybe that wasn't so smart.

I feel like I just got thrown into a crazy twister.

But, slowly but surely, the dizziness starts to subside. The monitor's incessant beeping slows down, and I feel my breath enter my system.

As the black spots leave my vision and the world is oriented normally, I see Max's face hovering above me.

My chest is still heaving, but I can practically taste the oxygen filling my lungs.

Delicious.

Max's eyes are hardened with worry, but there is almost… an expectancy?

Was she expecting me to freak out?

"What… was that… about?" I pant out, mentally focusing on Max's hand on my arm to calm myself.

"You're on some blood-substitute," Max says, looking at the dark red bags. I follow her gaze to look at the bags.

"So?" I ask, not completely sure what's wrong with that.

"Well, it's not real blood – not the blood you need to function well. It's got oxygen, but it doesn't process like normal blood, so it can physically exhaust you to do the simplest stuff."

"Okay," I say slowly, still not understanding. I mean – I'm a bird-kid. I have naturally enhanced stamina. "Why'd I have a spaz attack?"

"I…," Max trails off, looking at the doctor. I look over at him, a blank, expectant look on his face.

"You see… and I'm not quite sure why… but your blood is unique. It does not conform to any of the four main types of blood. So we tried them all, while you were unconscious from sedatives, but your body… heavily rejected the samples. All of them."

All I can do is stare blankly at him.

He shifts on his feet, uncomfortable for some reason. "Well, it wouldn't be so big a deal… but you've lost so much blood you need a transfusion. However, since none of them match… you can't be hooked off the machine. The blood-substitute is accepted, at least, by your body… but since it is basically a diluted version of real blood, your body is surviving on the bare minimum. So, at the _slightest_ agitation or excitement, your body quickly overcomes the oxygen supply and starts to collapse. To preserve itself," Doc-man finishes.

I want to exclaim "What the _hell_?" at him, but since that'd probably count as agitation, I settle for blank staring.

Should have seen this coming. Being 98% human and 2% bird, I probably have different blood.

Wait… I know something about this.

* * *

"_The subject's blood count is up to standards, very closely replicating the experimental hawk's values," a whitecoat listed off to my mother._

"_Good," she replied, smiling evilly at me. I remember cringing at the time, since I was only 10 and had just gotten my wings… and just started getting abused._

_She looked back at the whitecoat. "Make sure to make a note of the blood type – if, for any reasons, we need to get blood for or remove blood from this subject, it needs to be remembered that the RBC's have nuclei on them, like an avian. This allows a great increase in speed and stamina due to oxygen increase…_"

* * *

"Nuclei!" I shout without warning, remembering the difference that (just possibly) might save my life.

"What?" Max and Doc-man say, looking confused.

Max is more confused at me shouting; Doc-man is more confused about my terminology.

"My RBC's have nuclei on them," I say, even though I still have no clue what the sentence even means. "Like birds."

As the doctor's eyes furrow in confusion, Max's eyes grow wide, and she starts shaking her head wildly. I furrow my eyebrows, confused at her spontaneous behavior.

"Bird?" the doctor said. "Why would your blood have anything to do with birds?"

Okay, say this with me, folks:

_Whaaaaaaaaaa?_

How in the world am I in a freaking hospital without anyone knowing about my_ freaking wings?_

I look at Max and sign with my hands, "_How does he not know_?"

See, when Max and I were little (and still friends) we created a sign-system to talk to each other without anyone knowing what we were saying.

I just hope she still remembers.

She doesn't move for a second, then signs back, which makes me smile a bit.

"_My mom_."

My grin grows more profound.

I'm shocked about how emotional I'm being, too – don't worry.

But this is going to be _too_ funny.

"_Well, this will be good_," I sign.

Max gives me a warning look, but as I chuckle slightly, still smiling, she rolls her eyes and gives a small smile.

I turn back to the doctor.

"Got any raptor centers around here?" I ask, feigning innocence, leaving all humor out of my voice.

"Yes?" the guy responds, asking more than answering as he stands there befuddled by my question.

"Well, you're going to need some blood from them," I say, "because we are really alike – and not just in blood."

Then, I sit up (just slightly) and whip out my massive black wings, hitting some of the medical equipment on the way.

The guy stumbles backwards, his eyes the size of jumbo cookies.

Hey – don't judge. I'm hungry. Who knows how long I've been living on clear IV for sustenance?

Anyway, this whole time I am wearing the most empty, straight-faced expression ever – which is an accomplishment in itself.

Then, the guy's eyes roll back into his head and he faints onto the white tile floor.

Max and I both look at the man.

Then I bust up laughing.

Max smacks my head. "That's not funny, jerk! He's probably beyond freaked, and you're just laughing…"

She trails off, seeing me still laughing incredibly hard, then starts laughing herself.

It builds until we are both almost crying, from laughing so hard. I'm getting a little dizzy, but I'm not freaked about it like before.

Then, _ow!_

I bend over, clutching my left side from the sudden intense pain.

"Fang!" Max says, stopping her laughter as she realizes I'm not kidding about this.

I lift away my gown slightly to expose heavy white bandages on my left side. Gingerly removing the tape, I lift up the gauze to see three deep, large, angry looking scars on my side.

"Wow," I say, keeping the panic out of my voice (though the freaking monitor speeds up slightly). "I really got slashed, huh?"

"Slashed?" Max asks, sounding almost angry. I turn to her, a little surprised at her outburst. "Slashed? More like maimed! When I finally saw you, you had blood _soaking_ your entire left side! It looked like you were dead! And I wasn't sure if you'd even make it, what with being on the roof of a skyscraper in New York! You were _extremely_ lucky Mom had trustworthy contacts in that area that could rescue you! She had to tell them not to look at your back, to try to preserve your secret… though with your side ripped to shreds, I don't know _how_ they didn't have to –"

"Max –" I try to interrupt, but she continues, venting.

"Don't _Max_ me! You were in surgery for _hours_, Fang – hours! They thought you were going to die for a while, and when your body started rejecting blood –"

Max stops, a choking sound escaping her throat.

"Max…," I say softly, reaching for her hand and taking it into mine.

"You scared me so much, Fang," she says with a thick voice. "And Angel. God, she was scared, having to watch her brother bleed to death on a roof, with no way to help him…"

Her eyes start to water, but she wipes it away quickly, acting tough. The Max I always knew, never showing weakness.

"I couldn't stand it if you died, Fang. I couldn't live with myself, knowing I made your life hell for so long. You deserve a happy ending. More than anyone," Max finishes, looking at me, seeming to penetrate past all my barriers and straight into my soul.

I pause to think through my words, then continue. "I already have a happy ending," I say, and I peer out the door, seeing Angel asleep on a bench with my raptor vision. "I've got Angel, and she's safe."

Then I look at Max.

"And I've got you again. That means a lot, too. A ton."

She gives a watery smile, and the room brightens a little bit.

The moment wavers in the air, cloaking the room in the emotions present.

"What would also make me happy is some bird blood, though," I say, smirking.

Max sighs and rolls her eyes. "Really know how to kill a moment, don't you?"

I can't help but give her a full blown smile, which causes her to blink. I laugh at that. "What can I say – I just talented."

Max can't help but laugh, and I can't help but think things aren't all that bad.

* * *

**End!**

**Turn out okay? Not much, but we have the ball rolling.**

**By the way, the chapters are going to be a little more laid back. I have a huge idea forming in my head, but the story has recently gone through enough action for a little bit. Besides, it will take some time for the idea to find its nook in the story.**

**So, I'm asking what you want to read – not so much as I need the ideas, just seeing your favorite parts. I can write some school scenes and just blending with society; or some relaxing, fun scenes; or I have a funny track scene bouncing around in my head. What's up your alley?**

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Last to Know**_** by Three Day's Grace (a beautiful song – check it out).**

**And don't forget – reviews help make the magic. Feel free to leave opinions about this chapter and the story!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Hola, hola!**

**So, I've been AWOL for a bit, but I've been a little busy… and blocked in the writing area.**

**Yeah, I said the chappies would laid back, but I really have no idea what to do. They just have to come to me. And they're not.**

**So…**

**So here is chapter…. Is it sad that I can't really remember? Hold on….26!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything Maximum Ride related. Comprende?**

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_FPOV_

The snow/ice mix pounds against the windows as the blizzard roars on. Angel is curled up into my side, scared of the large storm. The world outside looks like nothing but a mass of white matter, what with the wind blasting the snow so much.

The lights flicker in the house, pulling my attention from the blizzard outside.

I hate snow storms.

I look down again at Angel only to find her asleep, her body relaxed and her breathing even.

"_Good_," I think. "_She's better off asleep during this_."

I can't help but fathom at how in the world she fell asleep. Earlier I had turned the TV on and cranked the volume up so Angel wouldn't be so freaked out by the sound of the storm.

Currently, the TV is _screaming_ as an episode of _I Shouldn't Be Alive_ plays on the screen.

Yeah – story of my life.

* * *

To catch you up on recent events, I now have a few pints of hawk blood swimming in my system.

Obviously, I am out of the hospital (I got out a few days after the Avian Red cross generously donated, much to the doctors' freaked-out-ed-ness), and Dr. M gave (more like demanded) me a ride home, even though I told her I was fine.

What with the avian-rapid-healing and everything.

Dr. M just muttered, "You always are," and practically welded me to the passenger seat.

* * *

I got home just in time for a blizzard, it seems.

The lights flicker again then give up completely, cloaking the house in black. Silence falls upon the air as the TV dies, the person on the screen's scream abruptly cutting off.

Great. Just flipping fantastic.

Gently, I lift Angel's head off my chest and rise from the couch. I lay her head as softly as possible on the couch, trying to not wake her up.

She doesn't stir.

Score 1 for team Fang.

I straighten out to full height and let my wings extend a little, relieving the cramps from squishing them against the couch seat.

Then, with a sigh, I head to the kitchen to grab a flashlight and some candles to place around the house.

I navigate the dark house with ease; the dark doesn't bother me as much, since the raptor vision helps. Still, I know the house well enough to get where I want without running into something.

I trail my fingers along the counters, feeling the drawers and mentally counting. I stop once I reach the drawer I want. I grab the handle and pull it open, then proceed to feel around for the contents I desire. When my hand fingers a cylindrical, metal object, I give a small smile.

Success.

I pull the flashlight out and twist the top, instantly releasing a steady stream of light to the ceiling.

One small object for Fang, one big leap against darkness.

I use the flashlight's beam to find some candles and matches. Quickly and methodically I strike a matchstick against the side of the box, setting the tip on fire. I light the wick of the candles and blow out the match.

Now: strategic placing.

I go around the house and place a candle every few yards. Then, I enter the bathroom and put one in there.

You laugh at that, but it is not easy to pee when you can't see the toilet.

…that was a TMI moment, wasn't it?

Anyway.

As soon as the house is filled with subtle light, I sit back on the couch where Angel is sleeping. Grabbing a book off the floor, I start to read by light of flashlight, waiting for the power to come back on.

* * *

_2 hours later_

God, it is cold in here.

I never thought to consider how this small house + no heating (due to the power outage) = cold Fang and company.

There is no fireplace in this house, either – oh, and the only sheets in the house are on the beds.

Which, of all times, I decided to wash a few hours ago…meaning they are soaking wet.

Well, there are always Mom's sheets – but those smell like drugs.

I'm not _that_ cold yet.

I take off my sweatshirt and lay in on Angel – its huge size covers her well enough, and my body heat trapped in it will warm her up.

Instantly shivering, I run to my room, scavenging the floor for one of my few shirts.

I manage to find a black T-shirt with a dark stain on the left side.

The shirt I wore when I rescued Angel.

It's been washed, but the stain is so worn in, the splotch where it once resided still exists.

Eh. Whatever.

I throw on the shirt, shivering as the cold fabric hits my bare skin. My arms are still cold, but at least I have a shirt on.

I don't have a lot of money, and I figure food is a little more important than clothes.

It's situations like these that make me question my priorities.

Hugging my arms against my chest and trying to conjure up some magical body heat, I head back to the living room.

I wonder if Max's house has no power, too, when I remember that she said something about her mom buying a generator a few years ago.

Maybe we should visit.

No way in hell am I flying out there – not only because of the T-shirt status, but also because light bird kid + 20 mph winds +snow/ice = BAD combo.

I look in the direction of the driveway. I really don't want to drive, but if it gets any colder, things could get bad here.

Then I remember that the last time I used the car, the door was ripped off and Angel was kidnapped.

Though I have retrieved Angel, I never did fix the door.

I was a little preoccupied by a gaping side wound.

Like I said, it's times like these that I question my priorities.

Well. Hm.

Conundrum.

I don't want to call Max and ask for someone to pick us up. Like I said, driving isn't a spectacular option right now.

What to do, what to do…

I look out the window, contemplating.

I watch as the door to our neighbor's (who really hate me, stereotypically assuming that _I'm_ the crack whore delinquent in the house) house opens. The old man scurries out, goes to some brown pile, pulls up a few round pieces, and scurries inside.

Firewood.

Wait…

Ding!

What was that, you ask?

Oh, just a light bulb lighting in my head.

I can practically feel the mischievous smile on my face as the plan forms in my mind.

"What can you do with firewood, Fang?" you ask. "Especially when you don't have a fireplace!"

I'm nothing if not resourceful.

My neighbors would _really_ hate me now, if they could know what I'm going to do.

Finding my worn tennis shoes, I slip them on. I silently jog to the back door and open it.

I almost get blown back inside by the draft that blows in.

With goose bumps instantly forming on my arms, I force myself forward and shut the door.

Trudging forward through ten inches of snow is never fun. Now, imagine doing it in thin tennis shoes, old jeans, and a T-shirt.

I really need to think of better plans.

As silently as I can, I walk up to the backyard of the neighbor's house. Pressing myself to the icy metal siding, I creep along, avoiding the windows so Mr. and Mrs. Grouch don't see me.

I spot the wood pile a few feet away… and right below a window.

Hm.

I tell myself I'll run and snag a few and retreat, all on the count of three.

_1…_

I jump forward, trying to use my bird-kid speed boost to carry me faster.

I grab for the top few pieces, trying to decide how many pieces of wood it would take to have a nice mini-bonfire in the kitchen.

Yep. That's my plan.

A mini-bonfire.

Does that require mini-marshmallows?

Ha! I make myself laugh.

My cold hands fumble over the wood, the numbness refusing to let me have a good grip on anything, and I accidentally drop a piece of wood.

Down the pile.

Making lots of noise, of course.

Damn.

I hurriedly pick it up and start sprinting as much as possible (which is hard in ten inches of snow) as I hear the sound of a chair scraping.

I make it to the back door of my house, then make a quick decision and continue to the side of the house.

I just make it around the corner when I hear a sliding door open and Mr. Grouch exclaim, "Who's there?"

I can't help the breathy laugh that escapes my lips as I take in how ridiculous this situation is.

I bend over to pick up the wood I dropped in the snow. When I stand back up, I almost drop it again.

I had been looking out at the backyard, and I saw a humanoid shape standing a distance away, the snow obscuring the face.

I walk forward, dropping the wood again in case I need my hands free.

"Who are you?" I shout, trying to make my voice carry past the howling wind.

The person makes no vocal response, but turns around.

It's a man.

And - no. No.

It can't be.

But I swear it looks like –

* * *

I wake up with my face in the snow and a stabbing numbness in my limbs.

Ugh. What am I doing out here?

I try to think back to how I ended face first in the snow.

However, the last thing I remember is leaving to get firewood for a mini-bonfire.

I look to the ground and see the wood lying in the snow a few feet away.

Huh.

I'll focus on this mysterious mystery… inside. Where it's warm.

Have I mentioned how _freaking cold_ it is out here?

I pick up the wood and shuffle inside with numb limbs. I bet my lips are blue.

How long was I out there?

I shut the door behind me as soon as I enter the kitchen. I drop the wood onto the floor and walk into the living room to find the matches I left in there.

I walk into the living room; I see Angel is awake on the couch.

"Oh, there you are!" Angel says, smiling. "Max called. But I didn't know where you were."

I try to give her a smile, but it hurts – my face is frozen solid.

Angel's smile falls away as she looks at me. "Why are you blue?" Angel asks, confused.

"Just c-c-cold," I manage out. I shakily point to the sweatshirt sitting by her. "C-c-can I h-have that-t-t?"

"Sure!" she says brightly, and jumps off the couch, sweatshirt in hand. She hands it to me.

"t-t-thanks-s," I say, pulling it on and instantly feeling the heat.

Ah.

"Hugs always make me feel better," Angel says, then proceeds to hug my legs.

Oh my goodness, the warmth feels _amazing_.

"Brr! You're cold!" Angel says, looking up.

"Yep," I say, closing my eyes as I try to focus on warming up.

It is times like these that I wish I came with insulation attached.

Then I remember what Angel first said.

"You said Max called?" I ask Angel.

"Oh! Yep," she says. "She said that her daddy is coming to pick us up. She says we can stay the night 'cause her house is warm. It has some geni… gena…"

"Generator," I finish for her. _She's probably worried we'll get too cold_.

"Yeah. He will be here real soon."

I can't help but roll my eyes at Max's actions.

She's too paranoid, sometimes.

But I can't say I don't appreciate it right now.

I start packing a backpack for Angel and I, since we'll probably (be forced to) spend the night there.

I finish packing, and I sit with Angel, waiting for Max's dad to arrive.

…Now that I think about it, I have never met Max's dad. Even in our childhood friendship.

He was always gone… to work, I guess.

I riffle through the backpack one more time, double checking that everything we need is there.

It is, but then why do I feel like I'm forgetting something? Something important…

I am snapped out of these thoughts by the sound of a car horn.

"That's probably for us, Ange," I say, and I stand up, slinging the small backpack over my shoulder.

I open the door and hold onto Angel's hand to make sure she doesn't fall and/or get blown down by the wind.

We walk out to the giant truck parked on the road. It is a red Ford F150 with a giant snowplow attached to the front.

That probably makes driving easier, I guess.

I help Angel get into the back seat, noticing the warm air that fills the cabin. I shut her door and hop into the passenger seat.

"Hey, boy. Wow, you look cold," a voice says. I look to the owner.

Max's dad.

He has Max's light brown hair but has Gazzy's blue eyes, set off by large wire-rimmed glasses. He has a moustache above his lip that looks like a hairy caterpillar, and I instantly want to shave it off.

On his person is a white coat. A white _lab_ coat.

Well, _that's_ a great first impression.

I instantly turn away, silently convincing myself that Max's dad isn't going to run off with me to a secret experimentation lab.

"My name's Jeb. What's yours? Maximillia called you 'Fang', but I don't like nicknames."

Maximillia? I forgot that was Max's real name.

I have a mental laugh, but I stop the smirk from reaching my face.

"Nicholas," I say tightly, still not trusting this man. "And that's Angela."

"Good names," he says, and then proceeds to do a turn-about and drive away.

It can easily be assumed that the car trip will be incredibly awkward on my behalf and silent.

* * *

I am currently in the shower at Max's house, letting the scalding hot water flow over my numb limbs.

Stop fantasizing, readers.

All I can say is I love generators and their ability to keep heat going.

At this point, I'm already clean, and my fingers and toes are probably going to prune soon from the water, but this the nicest I have felt in a while.

Our house doesn't have hot showers like this.

I finally decide to turn off the water. I step out of the shower…

And the lights turn off.

"Mom! The generator's faulting again!" I hear Max shout.

"It's probably got some ice in it. I'll go fix it!" I hear Jeb shout.

I blindly grab a towel and start drying off, not really phased by the darkness. I reach down to put some clothes on…

And find nothing.

Crap. I forgot to grab the clean clothes out of the backpack.

I am about to put on the dirty ones, but they are so cold, I _really_ don't want to.

Figuring this would be the best time to do so, I wrap the towel around my waist and open the bathroom door, planning to go to the guest room and grab my clothes.

Of course, I don't realize how hard it is to blindly navigate a house that you don't know.

See, since Max's house is significantly larger than mine, the middle of her house doesn't have windows – unlike mine, which is basically just a large room.

AKA, no lighting whatsoever.

I keep one hand on the towel and follow the wall with the other, feeling for an open door frame.

I find one, and I think this is my room.

So I step into the room like a person normally does.

Unfortunately, this was not my room.

Actually, it wasn't any room at all.

It was the doorway to the _stairs_.

And most people know what happens when you step wrong onto the stairs…

Yep.

Commence epic tumble down stairwell.

I land at what I assume must be the bottom, splayed all over the ground, faintly hoping the towel is still covering enough while consumed with thoughts along the lines of "_Ow!_"

"I got it!" I hear Jeb say.

Then the lights turn back on.

I see I am on the floor by the base of the stairs, towel (thankfully) covering my behind as I am sprawled on my stomach.

Only, the stairs face the open living room door.

Sitting in which were (of course) Dr. M and Max.

I try to hold down my embarrassment, but that is like trying to swallow a bunch of grapes at once.

Really hard.

"Um…," I gulp, feeling my cheeks heat up. "…What's up?"

Max and Dr. M continue to stare at my mostly naked self splattered at the bottom of the stairs.

"Yeah…I'll just go…," I say, then try to stand up. I stop, though, because there isn't a good way to stand up without completely flashing them.

Thankfully, they finally snap out of it and realize this too, for they avert their eyes.

Swiftly as possible, I stand up and re-secure the towel around my waist.

Then, the door opens and Jeb walks in.

His eyes instantly land on towel-clad me.

"Why are you down here in a towel, Nicholas?" Jeb asks, his eyebrow raised. I hear Max snigger in the background.

"Uh, well, you see, I tripped… power out… uh," I stumble uncharacteristically.

"Just get some clothes on, boy," Jeb says, and then walks away.

"Will do," I mutter almost unintelligibly and sprint up the stairs, mortified.

I find my room on the other side of the staircase door frame.

Of course.

As I shut the door and swiftly put clothes on, Jeb's questioning face taunts me.

But his face sparks something, and a different face flashes in my head.

A man, mostly obscured by the snow.

Where have I seen this?

The snow seems to pause for a second and his face is more visible.

I freeze, a shirt half-way over my head.

Why is the face of my father in my head?

Especially since _he shouldn't be alive_.

* * *

**Hope you like it!**

**If you spot any errors, please inform me. I don't have a beta or any proofreaders (obviously) and it's really embarrassing when there is an error in my work that spell-check passed by.**

**You all know what I mean. I do it, too. Like when you read a fic where **_**Angel**_** is spelled **_**Angle**_** and I laugh, because I keep thinking, "Who's her father, Pythagoras?"**

**It's a little of a filler, but it's something.**

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Barton Hollow**_** by The Civil War.**

**R&R?**


	27. Chapter 27

**I AM BACK….AGAIN…**

**Yay? Haha.**

**Anyway, this may be the last update for a few weeks, because I have a few competitions going to back-to-back, and I usually write the chapters on the weekend (since I have no ME time during the week). I have a chance on Friday and maybe Sunday of next week, but it depends on the work load I have.**

**You'll just have to pray with me.**

**This is another short chapter. Short being a relative term. Chapter 27, chaps!**

**Disclaimer: …. Really? This is getting so old. I don't own anything of the Maximum Ride title. Duh?**

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_FPOV_

I'd like to start by declaring how stupid physical education is.

For me.

I mean, you'd think I was all gun-ho for P.E., being a boy and liking to dominate opponents in general.

But if you think about it, it's really, really stupid.

For me.

Genetically enhanced bird-kid with enhanced strength, speed, and stamina.

Having to throw a ball and run like I'm a dorky human with no coordination and no awesome abilities.

In this aspect, I am a teenage boy: I want to show off.

Problem: I can't, without suspicious and confused looks that would probably lead to me being in a freak show, science lab, or worse…

Like a track team.

As much as I'd like to pwn the United States teenage runners, I'd rather have my secret… a secret.

And then, there is that small health unit they seem to do in P.E.

Which, obviously, I can't relate to at all, since my anatomy is completely funky and bird-like.

Ya know.

The only thing I ever learned from that health unit is CPR, and since I'm the most likely one who would need it (and I can't just CPR myself… wow, that sounded dirty), the class is entirely useless.

The reason I am venting to you about this is because this is the exact topic Max and I were talking about a few days.

Max and I have the same hour of P.E., and two days a week, we have 'run days.' AKA, we either run around in circles on the indoor track for timed intervals or we power-walk behind the P.E. teacher. And, once in a while, we run 'surprise' timed miles. It's not really a surprise, though – you can always tell, because Mr. Sewster, the P.E. coach, usually schedules them when he's in a bad mood and wants to be cheered up by seeing floundering, out-of-shape teens run around for a mile.

Mr. Sewster been spewing acid at everyone who talks to him, so today we're going to have a run day for sure.

Max and I were talking about classes, and I mentioned how bored I am in P.E., which led to her inquiry why, which led to my explanation (see above).

Which led to a certain dare for me to show me just how fast I could run.

In front of the class, being timed by Sewster.

And, being the complete idiot I am, accepted.

For a while, I had no clue how to run my crazy speed while not being shipped to Freaks of America. I almost called the dare off.

But I'm anything if not persistent.

So, I dropped by Iggy's house yesterday for some advice.

Actually, more like strategy.

Here, readers, let's go into flashback mode.

Cue italics:

* * *

_Iggy sits down on his old, beige couch, and I follow in suit, slumping into a holey, grey armchair._

"_So," Iggy says, "what seems to be the problem?"_

"_Well," I say, "I have a dare – but no one can remember what I've done once I'm done."_

_Iggy's expression is comical._

"_What are you doing? Streaking around the school?"_

_I give Iggy a glare that doubles in saying, "_Do you really think I'm streaking?"

"_Well, I don't know what you'll do to impress Max –" Iggy starts, before a pillow is thrown at his head a little too hard._

"_Ouch!" Iggy cries out, holding his nose._

"_Wuss," I say. "I'm revoking your man card."_

_Iggy looks hilariously distraught. "NOOO!"_

_See, when we were younger, Iggy said that a 'man card' should be a literal object._

_So, one day, Iggy walks in with several business-card-sized pieces of paper, with writing on it that stated:_

_1. You were a man._

_2. You did tough and sometimes stupid things (and it gave examples)._

_3. If you did anything girly (and it gave examples), your card could be revoked by another man-card holding person._

_4. To win it back, you had to do something of extreme masculinity (more examples)._

_I'm ashamed and proud to say I have a man card in my back pocket._

_Anyway._

_Iggy attempts to give puppy-dog eyes, but it makes me smirk profoundly._

"_Fine," Iggy mumbles, slouching in his chair. "What do you have in mind?"_

_I lean forward out of my seat, getting to business finally. "I was wondering if you have any bombs – like knock-out gas or something, that I could detonate after my dare was complete."_

_Iggy gets a mischievous smile on his face. "How many do you need?"_

_Understand this: Iggy is a pyro. _

_It began when Iggy was ten. His father, a manager in a corn-processing plant, was showing Iggy around in one of those bring-your-son-to-work days. _

_Just as his dad was explaining the oh-so interesting aspects of a corn boiler, suddenly a whistle was heard shrieking through the air. Soon following was a loud siren, and people started running frantically away from a machine on the other side of the plant._

"_What's that, Dad?" young Iggy inquired._

"_Get down, Ignacious!" his dad yelled, and tackled Iggy to the floor of the metal bridge._

_However, Iggy could see what happened next through the bars of the bridge._

_The boiler __**exploded**_**.**

_The explosion never even got close to Iggy, but immediately, Iggy was hooked._

_He wanted to make things explode._

_By the time he was in high school, he was a chemical expert. He could make a bomb with a pen cap and some bubble gum._

_So, I knew Iggy would have something up my alley._

_I think for a moment before responding to Iggy. "Just enough to knock out the people in the indoor track room."_

_Iggy's smile becomes more evil. "Follow me, and I'll explain what to do on the way."_

_As I get up and follow down the hallway, Iggy suddenly stops, digs through a trunk to his left, and pulls out some clear mask with tubes._

"_What's this?" I ask, confused at this contraption._

"_You want to stay conscious after the bomb goes off, don't you? How many gas masks you need?"_

_

* * *

_

So, here I am, dressed in some sweats, a T-shirt, and my holey tennis shoes, waiting for mile day to start.

Oh, and did I mention there are some knock-out gas bombs sitting in the ventilation vents?

And two gas masks in the equipment box behind the bleachers.

I'm such an idiot.

The girls enter the gym, and I easily spot Max in the crowd. She catches sight of me, raising an eyebrow.

The message: "_Are we on?_"

I give a small smirk.

Message: "_Hell yeah_."

"Ok! Surprise, class! We're running a mile!" Sewster yells, an almost evil smile creeping onto his face.

The class groans, which I'm sure only makes the sadistic P.E. teacher happier.

"Ok. Girls line up first! Boys, you'll run next, since you are faster!" Sewster yells again, pulling out his stopwatch and standing by the starting line.

Well, that's sexism if I ever heard it.

And by the look on some of the girls' faces (Max included), the girls are well aware of it.

Girls start, and the rest of the guys in the class check out the girls as they run. I just relax and watch the speeds. I notice Max running with one of the leaders, a pretty fit person, but not a track star.

Finally, eleven minutes later, the last girl finishes.

"Boys, you're up!" Sewster yells, already marginally happier.

Teachers are so weird.

I stand up with the rest of the male populace and line up at the starting line. I catch Max's eye again and find she is already looking at me, eyes showing her anticipation.

She mouths some words: _I'm waiting_.

I give her a smile – a full-blown smile, I'm so excited to show off – and she blinks, as if a bright light just shone in her eyes.

I also register other girls gasp and giggle, but I don't give a crap beyond this dare.

Coach blows the whistle.

The guys take off, with some of the guys taking the lead quickly. Most of them will fall back quickly; they don't have the stamina. A few will keep up the pace, used to blistering speed and endurance runs. Others will keep a steady pace, then close upon the leaders with a burst of speed.

It's like a horse race.

I start out in the pack, going what feels like a snail-pace, though I register that it is a relatively fast pace for humans. A 7-8 minute mile pace. I don't want to impress quite yet.

I am halfway around the track as I catch Max's eyes. She's annoyed at my lack of a show.

"_Get on with it," _she seems to say.

Giving a smirk, still breathing easy, I speed up slightly, leaving the pack easily and going to the quick-fader pack.

3 and 1/2 laps to go.

I keep this pace for the remainder of the lap, then increase speed to catch the track-star runners, who are running a human-standard blistering pace: 5 minute mile.

I follow them for 3/4 a lap, enjoying the surprise the runners display at my presence, since I usually run with the 7-8 minute milers.

Oh, and Sewster's face is pretty hilarious, too.

Just wait.

I look over again and see Max isn't very impressed still, though intrigued.

I turn the corner to come back the homestretch, about to start lap 2.

And here comes the boom.

I pump my legs, feeling the burn of muscle as I stretch my eager legs. My heart speeds up, but my breathing stays even, and I feel the adrenaline rush giving me an inner emotional high.

In seconds, the track stars are left far behind, and a small wind blows on Sewster as I pass.

His eyes are about to leave his skull, I swear.

It takes everything I have to not laugh out loud at the thrill running at this pace gives me.

Oh, and everyone's shock.

My feet are eating up the track, and I have to focus on holding my wings in; they want to extend and fly. This is about take-off speed.

I fly past Sewster again, making there only one lap to go.

The track stars are just at the 1/4 mark for lap 3.

It's time to pour on my final speed.

I completely fly on the ground, my feet hardly touching. My breathing starts to become uneven as I reach actually work-out speeds.

I pass the coach, and I see him look at the watch in disbelief before looking at me again.

Several times.

I lightly jog (my version of a light jog) to the end of the room and come back, the standard cool-off Sewster requires. I look over Sewster's frozen form to look at the watch, a time blinking since Sewster never pressed resume.

3:00.

Three minutes.

About 20 mph.

And that's with me dilly-dallying the first two laps at human speed.

I let a small smirk come on my face.

"Something wrong, coach?" I ask, feigning innocence.

Sewster's mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out.

I look around to see all the girls staring at me in disbelief. The boys on the track have either slowed down to a snail pace, mouths open, or they have stopped altogether, completely in shock.

Max's expression is the best.

Her jaw is completely dropped, her eyes are bugged, her arms frozen in some gesture. As my smirk grows, Max seems to snap out of it. Her eyes shine with aw, shock, humor, and …

The last emotion is confusing. Pride?

That's the closest I can think.

"_Maybe it's love_," my conscience fantasizes.

My conscience is an idiot. Please ignore it.

Anyway…

Show over.

I slide my hands into my pocket and push the button on the detonator.

I barely hear the click as the bombs detonate, which means no one else could possibly hear it.

I go to the equipment bin, pulling Max with me.

I quickly grab the mask and shove it at Max.

"What's this?" Max says, her voice a little dumb-struck still.

"Gas mask. You do want to stay aware, right?" I say as I put my own on.

She quickly dawns hers.

The P.E. class, sitting there like ducks after my performance, quickly goes unconscious as the knock-out gas floods the room.

From behind the bleachers, I hear bodies _thunk_ to the ground.

Three minutes later, I lead Max out and see the entire class and Sewster knocked out cold, dreaming from the hallucinogen that Iggy put in the gas.

When they wake up, they'll think they'll have dreamed it up.

Especially when they wake up with me 'waking up' along them.

Max starts to take off the mask, but I halt her.

"_Five minutes," _I sign with my hands.

She nods.

Five minutes later, I take my mask off and take a tentative whiff of air.

It's clean.

I give Max a thumbs up, and she takes her mask off.

It's quiet for a moment.

Then we explode in laughter.

"O…M…G," Max stutters out through her hysterical laughter. "That was… the most… awesome… and…hilarious thing… I've ever… seen."

I can only nod, I'm laughing so hard. I can't breathe.

And what she does next doesn't help the breathing matter.

She swoops in, laughing and smiling, and kisses me.

It takes a moment to respond, but then I'm smooching right back, a warmth filling my limbs.

But it's over in a few seconds, and we are laughing and smiling and panting again.

"Go lie down," I instruct her, still grinning like a fool. "You've got to look knocked out. I'm going to double check that the door is locked."

"Aye, aye, bird-kid extraordinare," she replies, smirking.

I lightly punch her arm, then head to the door.

I pull the handle, and I find it resistant. The door lock switch is flipped vertically, which means it is locked.

Good.

I look through the window of the door before I head back.

And I see someone walking down the hall.

They see me, smile, wave, and walk away.

I leap from the window as if it had electrocuted me.

"Fang?" Max asks. "What's wrong?"

My head is swimming with the image I just saw… that _impossible_ image…

I stumble back to the track, unable to answer, and unable to focus. My surroundings spin around me, and I faintly recognize that I am about the pass out.

"Fang?" Max's voice calls out, but I'm far from in tune with reality.

Because the man I just saw waving and smiling at me had a scar around his neck, a blood-splatted pinstriped suit, dark hair, and blue eyes surrounded by red glasses.

The condition that I last saw my father in – as he died.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Something to Believe In **_**by Parachute and **_**Everything Falls**_** by Mercy Fall.**

**R&R?**

**Hope to see you soon.**


	28. Chapter 28

**So, I've had a long leave-of-absense. But I've had several back-to-back competitions, so writing time has been limited.**

**In a few days, I leave the cold for sunny California for a few days. When I return, I have two competitions within a few days of each other, so the next update may not be immediate (or once a week, as I tried to achieve this story).**

**I also noted that I keep using the term "short" for my chapters… and every time I say a chapter will be short, it ends up 9 pages long. So I'm not going to the say the length of this chapter. Whatever the length, just go with it.**

**And then I read **_**Angel**_** last weekend. That book…. Ugh. I don't even want to think about it. All I will say is that James Patterson has gone mental and I'm about to spork him to death if things don't get any better.**

**Also, a shout-out to the reviewers! You've been great. Over 100 reviews! Almost double what I got for my other story, which had about as many chapters as this one does so far. I appreciate the feedback and support.**

**Ok, since is supposed to be an update and **_**not**_** the story of my life, onto to chapter 28!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything of the Maximum sort. Thank goodness – if I did, I might just kill myself for how screwy the books have gotten.**

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_FPOV_

Have you ever wondered what it is like to die?

What does it feel like to lose conscious – permanently? Is it like losing your breath without it returning, an aching thing? Or is it like falling asleep – slowly going numb until you just don't feel or register anything?

Do you still remember who you are and everyone you've met as you breathe a final breath, heart thumping a last thump?

Did my father remember my face as Mom slit his throat on our living room floor?

Is a fast death better than a slow one?

Sure, the suffering is diminished.

But when you are slowly dying, you know it, usually. You suffer, but you can think on all you've done, reflect on mistakes, make amends and try to live life the way you should of.

A quick death doesn't leave room for you to reflect, regret, and forgive. One minute you are living, then _boom_ – you are dead, the life, memories, experiences, and future stolen from your unsuspecting hands.

Once you're dead, you don't really get second chances.

Unless you believe in reincarnation, of course. Even then, you may not live another life as a human, the same human, the same situations, the same loves and hatreds and freedoms and restrictions.

I wonder if a body even registers the pain before it crumples in a quick death.

If it doesn't, the pain enters ten times as strong into the victim's closest relations.

I remember what it was like after my father's death. I'd sit by the worn-in bloodstain that no about of Oxy-Clean would remove. A red reminder of the life I was now living, a 'newbie' victim to my mother's anger. I'd sit by that stain, feeling the weight on my heart, a depression rooted deep in my soul. I could never cry, however. Already, my emotional shield was strengthening. At age ten, I was closing off. Yet, at age ten, I couldn't really grasp the concept of my father being gone forever. I understood death and its horrors, but the concept that my dad would never again play catch with me, never again scold me for leaving a mess on the living room floor, never again hug me and tell me he was proud of me – I couldn't comprehend it.

I never forgave myself for my father's death. I always carried the burden for causing his death, no matter how illogical and unreasonable my thinking was.

And now, yet again, I sit by the faded blood stain, slightly obscured by my own blood stains.

Father and son, joined by the blood they have shed.

After I woke up from unconsciousness (along with the rest of the P.E. class, minus Max), the principle had let us all go home early, for "traumatic incidents" and "investigation purposes." Max had tried to talk to me, but I had blended in the crowd quickly and got the hell out of that school.

The phone rings again, piercing the silence of the house and the soft patter of raindrops hitting the window pane.

I let the phone ring again until it quits. I hear Max's voice complain on the voicemail, anxiously asking me to call her back while sounding like she would happily spork me to death for ignoring her.

I finally take out the cell phone Iggy's mother gave me and send a brief, 3 cent text message to Max.

_Pick up Angel from school. Take her to your house._

_-Fang_

As soon as it is sent, I turn off the device and unplug the house phone.

I don't want to talk to anyone. Not when I can't even figure out what the hell is going on.

I sit back down by the red bloodstain, my mind reeling.

Why am I seeing my father's face, seven years after the fact?

Seeing him through the P.E. room window, blood-spattered pinstripe suit, round spectacles, scarred neck, had re-open the hastily stitched-together pouch I had sewn together to burry my father's death. The horrors of that night flash through my mind, recollecting every action.

It had started out with me accidentally spilling my glass of milk at the dinner table.

* * *

"_Fang!" my father shouts, leaping up out of his chair to hastily grab a dishcloth. I try to wipe up the liquid with my hands and one napkin, but he shoves my hand away and hastily wipes it up with angry, sharp movements._

"_I'm sorry," I mumble, feeling the disapproval flooding me already._

" '_S fine," he says, not sounding like it is fine at all._

"_Jesus Christ, James – don't be so hard of the kid. He didn't do it on purpose!" my mother scolds, standing up with her empty plate. As she heads to the sink, she strokes my hair in a comforting manner._

"_I know, Lillian – unlike you, who is purposely poisoning her unborn child!" my father says, his voice rising slightly. _

_My mom, at the time, is drinking a new bottle of alcohol – her 3__rd__ one in the past few hours. The bottle smacks the counter hard, causing the bottle to crack a little at the bottom. Brown liquid slowly drips onto the white countertop._

"_God damn it, James, I'm not poisoning the baby by having a few ounces of booze now and then!"_

"_A few ounces? How about a few liters a day! Your intake is about the same as an alcoholic's is! That's what Barbara at Nantucket Hospital said when I asked her yesterday!"_

"_Oh, are you and Barbara just chummy now, huh? Her word is better than God's now-a-days, it seems."_

"_She knows about this stuff, what can make or break a child. I don't want you, me, the _baby_, to have to suffer for your stupid addiction!"_

"_It doesn't matter about that, though. What I'm going to inject into the child will make her overcome any obstacle alcohol _may_ present."_

_The glass my father had just picked up drops to the floor, shattering into dozens of sharp, clear, jagged glass pieces._

"_You're __**what**__?" my father exclaims, a vein in his neck pulsing._

_I am still sitting in my chair at the table, watching, frozen to my seat._

"_Experimenting. To better the child and test some theories I've been formulating for a while," my mother says, no hint in her voice that this bothers her in the least._

"_Our baby is not a fucking __**lab rat**_, _Lillian! You can't just fucking do whatever the hell you want! This is __**my**__ child too, and I will not deal with some screwed-up thing because you were curious and retarded!"_

"_I don't care what you think. There will be no mistake. This child will be perfect!"_

"_I am not going to live with this shit anymore! I will not stand by and let you ruin the life of our unborn child!"_

"_Well, what are you fucking going to do, James? Just LEAVE?"_

"..._Actually, I will. You're fucking insane, and I am going to save my ass, even if I can't save the baby's! I am going to get the fuck AWAY FROM YOU RIGHT NOW!"_

_Mom lets out a high pitched shriek of infuriation that sounds so inhuman, I wonder if she will turn into a wolf or something. Then, she grabs the knife next to my plate – my hand inches from the blade, easily within reach._

_But I don't grab it before her. I sit there, frozen, scared at the words being shouted and my parents behavior. Not sure what to think about death and babies._

_My inability to act seals my father's fate._

_Mom and my father battle it out for a while, exchanging blows and grunts, shouts and curses._

_My mother finally pins my father to the floor, the knife pressed into his jugular vein._

"_You don't want to watch me create a success?" my mother asks, her tone becoming more hysterical by the second. "Then fine."_

"_You don't have to live through any of it!"_

_Then, she slashes at his throat. He gurgles and dies instantly, his eyes fogging over._

_I am still in my chair in the kitchen, eyes wide, truly afraid and scared witless._

_My mother stands up, a cruel smile on her face. "Fucking son of a bitch," she says. She turns and sees my sitting there, a frozen rabbit caught by the wolf hunter._

"_You agree with your damn father? You want to join him?" she asks, the blade still dripping red onto my father's pinstripe suit, the red stain spreading onto the carpet by her feet._

_I can't respond. I can't move. I am paralyzed by fear. I only stare at her in horror._

_She marches over to me with angry stomps and holds the knife up, close to __**my**__ neck._

"_You will not say a fucking word about this. Your father died in a car accident. You don't know any details. If you do, you can join him in that corner. You hear me, boy? __**Fang**__?"_

_I nod my head mutely, terrified of this beast that has replaced my mother._

"_Good," she says, dropping the knife onto my plate._

_I watch red mix with the spilled milk, red on white, never mixing. The past and the present, too separate entities sitting on my plate._

"_Fang," I hear my mother mumble to herself, chugging back more beer. "What a stupid name."_

_

* * *

_

I sit by the bloodstain, my heart throbbing painfully.

How can I see his face everywhere now? Who is doing this to me?

When I saw him die, how can I accept all the proof that says my father is alive?

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**9 Crimes**_** by Katherine Crowe. A beautiful song.**

**R&R**


	29. Chapter 29

**So… I just got a free moment. Yay! *cheers***

**However, I have limited time, so this chapter is going to be a little short.**

**I'm kinda excited to write it. I had a **_**bing**_**! moment today. I just hope it works out.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride or anything like it.**

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_FPOV_

Ever since the gym incident, I've been on red-alert.

I mean, it's not every day you see your dead father, right?

I have stopped loitering around places. Angel and I follow a tight schedule: go to school, go home.

So, as I walk up to my house, I do not expect to see Angel and I's house _on fire_.

Not a, "I can see the fire down the block," fire.

No.

This is a, "Little Sally Walker is walking down the street when her house _bursts into flame,_" fire.

What. The. Hell.

Angel screams out as every inch of our home sprouts orange and yellow flames.

I don't scream, but I'll admit my eyes bug out and I grab Angel and leap back a step out of shock.

I mean, even in _my_ screwed up life, my house has never burst into sporadic flames.

Again. What. The. Hell.

"Fang, what's going on? Our house is burning! Fang!" Angel exclaims.

"Calm down, Ange," I say, but my voice is hollow, clearly showing how _not okay_ this situation is.

"Fang – Celeste is in there!" Angel screams, terror-stricken, her wide, blue eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Angel, I think Celeste will have to stay –"

"NO! FAANG!"

Sigh.

For those of you who are sitting there confused, I'll clear this up. I can hear your question of, "Who the heck is Celeste? A dog? A monkey? Their pet dinosaur-lion-narwhale?"

No.

You've actually heard of Celeste, back when Angel found out about Mom abusing me. Celeste is the sole reason Angel begged Max to come back to the house that night, saying (and I quote), "I had left Celeste, and I can't sleep without her." **(AN: Chapter 11, if anyone wants proof)**

Celeste is Angel's teddy bear.

Angel found this bear along the road one day, wearing a dirty white angel costume. Angel begged me to let her take the bear home, and me, being the loving, adoring, and dirt-poor sucker for Bambi eyes, let her take it home, only cautioning her to, "not lick it – that thing could have diseases or something."

Yeah, I don't know how we've managed for as long as we have.

But this bear is becoming a continual problem for me.

And I must also comment on the way a seven-year-old's mind works. One moment they are concerned about the house burning down, and the next they are more concerned about their teddy bear's fate.

Sigh.

Anyway.

Back off the bunny trail, my house is _on fire_.

"Angel, it's too late to get Celeste –"

"PLEASE, FANG – PLEEEEEEASE?"

Insert Bambi eyes.

Damn.

"Angel, stay out here, and _**don't**_ move – understand?" I say, resigned.

"Yes, yes – just get Celeste!" Angel begs, her eyes eager but still distressed.

I sigh audibly this time, and turn around, running up to my burning home.

Standing in front of the front door is hard enough – the heat emanating off the house already has me quadruple doubting my decision to save a dumb teddy bear.

But it's for Angel.

God, if I didn't love her so much, I'd kill her.

So, with that thought, I kick the flaming front door down with a powerful kick.

I start to stomp out the flame on my shoe, and then I realize there is really no point, since the whole house is in flames.

So, I run in, remembering what I can from the few fire-safety videos I watched in grade school.

I bend down, trying to stay out of the smoke. I make sure to avoid any metal surfaces – like doorknobs – because metal conducts heat like a fat kid eats donuts.

Sorry, this isn't the time and place to make fun of obese children.

I quickly head toward Angel's bedroom, the smoke already causing my lungs to protest. I kick down the door again.

There's really no point to worry about the damage I am causing.

Because, deep inside, I already know that we aren't going to live here ever again.

Whoever rigged this house to blow has assured that.

I search through the flaming contents of Angel's room for the accursed bear. Finally, I see a golden halo peeking through the mass of stuffed animals. I tug at the golden appendage and out comes Celeste, remarkably not burnt or on fire.

That stupid bear.

With my prize in hand, I leap out of her room, prancing around the pools of fire.

I start to head out of the house, but I think of something last minute.

I should try to scavenge as many valuable or necessary possessions as I can, because Angel and I aren't going to have much to live off now.

I first go to the bathroom, glad the door is already open due to my growing fatigue. I rip the glass cabinet cover off its hinges, sending it crashing to the ground. It shatters into hundreds of sharp shards (some of which find purchase in my ankles and legs), but I focus on the contents inside the cabinet. I grab the first aid kit and some basic medications, shoving them haphazardly in my pockets.

With that room emptied of all important objects, I run to the living room.

I start to head to the money drawer, hidden behind the television and concealed by a picture of a red apple in a black and white world **(AN: book reference, anyone?)**.

Then, I see my worst nightmare.

The painting is on the ground, ripped to shreds and burning.

The compartment is open.

And all the money that Mom had left, that I had managed to earn (Mom had never used banks, which I had once considered a blessing)….

All of the money that could have supported Angel and I is burning or already burned to a black ash.

I stand still for a moment, the complete hopelessness of this situation washing over me.

As stupid as money is, it makes living in America about a thousand times harder.

"_Angel and I will be okay – we've been through worse,"_ I think, snapping out of my paralyzed state.

The smoke is starting to make me cough violently, so I grab the last things I can think of: a photo album and a box of old family trinkets sitting on the bookshelf.

Then, hacking and blurry-eyed, I lumber out of the burning house.

Hitting the air outside is like a spritz of Febreez: a breath of fresh air.

I tumble to a stop next to Angel, who, true to my orders, hasn't moved.

"Fang! You got Celeste!" she exclaims happily.

"Yep –" I say briefly before hacking again.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou! You're the best big brother ever!" she exclaims, coming in to hug my legs.

Well, shucks.

"You bet," I say, wheezing still.

Angel looks up, her blue eyes wide again. "Fang, you're on fire!"

"What?" I shout, leaping away from her and examining my body.

And yep, I am.

The side of my shirt is on fire.

And my shoes.

See? I told you there was no point in putting out the fire earlier.

So, I do what the action movie stars always forget to do.

Stop, drop, and roll.

Fire vanquished.

Very effective. You don't watch fifty million videos in grade school of Bobby rolling on the floor like an idiot for nothing.

Angel is laughing at me, the bugger.

As I get up, free of the fire, I can feel the burns forming on my skin. However, Angel and I have to get moving.

"Angel, we need to go –" I start before being interrupted by a loud crash.

Turning around, I see the roof of our home collapsed into the main structure, black smoking billowing up into a grey sky.

"Let's go, Ange," I say in a quiet voice, stunned into silence.

We really don't have a home anymore.

So, I put the meager belongings I grabbed into my backpack. I scoop Angel into my arms.

"Hold on, Ange," I say.

Angel, somber again, nods.

I look around to check for onlookers. Finding none, I release my dark wings from my back, flapping a few times to stretch a few sore muscles.

Then, with a few strong running strides, I lift off the ground.

I hover about 20 feet up in the air, looking down at the place I used to call home.

"Fang…," Angel says, looking at the burning house. She looks back up at me, saying, "It's really gone, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I say somberly. The orange flames are dying, consuming itself as the oxygen leaves.

I look at the backyard, seeing flames there as well.

My heart almost stops at what I see there.

In the small backyard, spelled out by orange flames, are the words, "Back to Reality."

A phrase my dad used to say at the end of fun outings.

"_Well, the fun's up- back to reality, clan."_

"_What is going on?"_ my conscience asks.

"Fang?" Angel asks me, poking me. "Are you OK?"

"Y-y-eah," I say, hating how I stutter the response out.

"It'll all be OK, big brother – I've got you. You're superman!" Angel says, smiley wide.

But, for the first time, I can't reciprocate a smile back.

"Uh-huh," I manage.

Back to reality.

Has this just been a break? Has this momentary pause in terror been my 'fun'?

It doesn't feel like it.

Why can't my dad stay dead? Why does everything I ever know have to be a lie?

I'm so sick of this.

I flap my wings and angle myself to Max's house.

First things first: find shelter.

* * *

I land a good block away from Max's house.

I place Angel down on the sidewalk and check my battered, old watch.

My father's watch.

_3:10._

Has it only been ten minutes since we left school?

So much has changed.

Max won't be home yet – she has soccer after schools for an hour. And Max's mom works 9-6 shifts at a veterinary office.

I wonder if anyone is home right now.

Taking Angel's hand, I walk us to the front porch of Max's home. With a deep breath I ring the doorbell twice.

_Diiiiing dooooong. Diiiiiing doooooong._

I can hear footsteps on hard wood floors. The footsteps grow louder as the person approaches the door.

Finally, the door swings open with a _creeeeek_, and standing in the doorway is Max's father.

Well, this isn't the prime candidate on Fang's top ten people he'd ask for help from, but it'll do.

"Hello, sir," I say.

Hey, I _can_ be polite. I'm just an overly sarcastic person.

"Why do you smell like smoke, Nicholas?" Jeb asks me.

Some people struggle with the polite concept.

"My house burnt to the ground five minutes ago," I say flat toned, but if you listened hard enough, you could hear the bitter anger in there.

"How did you manage to burn down your entire house, Nicholas? Not that you have much of a house _to_ burn down," Jeb says, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

My house burning down is an _annoyance_ to the man?

Okay, some people don't even know the concept of polite.

And he assumes I did something to burn down my house?

…Well, I guess there aren't a ton of cases where a person's house is deliberately burned to the ground.

"I didn't do anything, sir. Someone set my house on fire," I say, being the better person in this politeness battle.

"That's what you get for being involved in gangs and trouble, young boy," Jeb says, scolding me.

Uh, _hello_?

"I'm not involved in a gang or what not –" I try to say.

But _nooo._

Douche bag senior is not finished, apparently.

"I don't get why my daughter keeps company with you. I really wish you'd stay away. You are such a negative influence. You are probably the reason she is being so defiant!"

Ok, I am not someone who angers easily.

…ok, that is a semi-lie.

I'm not someone who _shows _anger easily.

But El Señor Douche-o is really ticking me off.

"Max has always been a defiant person, _sir_, but could you _please_ listen for a moment?" I say calmly – overly calm.

Jeb stands there, tapping his foot.

_Bloop bloop bloop!_

That's the sound of Fang's mad-o-meter rising.

"I just came to ask if we could have a place to stay for a little bit. Until we can find another accommodation," I finally spit out, after three minutes of all this nonsense.

Jeb stares hard at me, and then looks at Angel. Then back at me.

"No," Jeb says.

_What?_

"What?" I question, completely baffled at this man's bone-headedness.

"I am sick of my family having to take care of you because you can't keep out of trouble. I draw the line now. Figure out how to fix it this time, _Fang_. I'll take Angel in, but you've run out of chances."

What. The. _Fuck_.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" I ask, all civility gone. I swear my eye is twitching, I'm so mad.

"Are you going to accept or not?" Jeb says, acting like this is perfectly _rational_.

And I really want to punch this man.

I _really really_ want to sock him in the face.

But you know what readers? I don't.

I can't.

Because giving Angel a solid home is worth more than socking El Señor Douche-o's face into his cranium.

Clenching and unclenching my fists, along with a deep, resigned sigh, I nudge Angel toward Jeb.

"What?" Angel says, looking back at me, confused.

"Go with him, Angel. You'll stay with Max," I say quietly.

Her eyes widen and sadness glistens in them. I almost back out, but I know this is the best option we'll get.

"But – Fang! You can't go away, big brother!" Angel cries, her eyes pooling with tears.

This is the best decision.

This is the best decision.

This is the best God-damn decision.

"I'll still see you. Just not at home," I say, unable to face her now.

"Come on, sweetie – come inside," Jeb says.

This is the best decision.

This is the best decision.

I will not punch Jeb in the face.

This is the best decision.

"FAAANG!" Angel screams as she is pulled into the house.

"Bye, Ange," I say quietly, my heart constricting painfully.

"FAAAAN-"

Angel's shout is cut off by the door slamming.

I stand there on the porch for a moment, questioning how the right thing to do is the hardest.

Then, I turn around and start to walk around.

I hear a door open again, and I hear Jeb's voice ring out.

"Back to reality, Nicholas."

In seconds I am back on that porch, door swung away with a _BAM_, and my hands on his throat.

"What did you say, _Jeb?" _I say in a quiet, vicious voice.

Jeb visibly pales.

"I said, _what did you say?_" I say again, shaking from my fury.

Jeb shakes his head and seems to snap out of some trance.

Then, the bastard smiles.

"Back to reality, Nicholas. Why, does that phrase strike something emotional?" Jeb chokes out, still with that snarky-ass smile.

I audibly growl and tighten my grip.

"How do you know that phrase?" I order out, still hissing.

"Your dad says it all the time," Jeb says, still smiling even though I could snap his neck right now.

"Wipe that God-damned smile off you face, Jeb! In case you haven't noticed, _I can kill you right now_."

His smile fades slightly. But he still looks like he knows something I don't.

"How do you suppose Dad says that phrase all the time when he is _dead_?" I hiss, only furry in my mind.

"I work for him," Jeb says, that snarky grin returning.

My eyes narrow further, if possible. "You work for my mother, don't you?"

Jeb stares me straight in the eye, and even with every lying technique I know I can't see any trace of lying as he says his next words: "I work for you father, Nicholas."

I almost recoil in shock, but I shove that phrase away.

It has to be a lie. I saw my dad die.

"My dad was an insurance salesman. You're a _whitecoat_."

"You really believed that? God, after all these years of observing you, I never thought you'd be this _gullible_," Jeb says.

I jolt as if I've been electrocuted.

"_Observing me? _I've just been an _experiment_ for you?" I say, beyond enraged.

"Under your father's orders," Jeb says, having too much fun with this.

The lying bastard.

"My father is dead. I saw him _die_ on my living room carpet," I spit, teeth barred in total rage.

"Seeing is believing, isn't it?" Jeb says.

I can't help it this time; I leap away from Jeb as if he is poisonous.

"_What?_" I breathe out.

"You've got ten minutes before Itex troops are sent after you," Jeb says, pulling out his cell phone.

Okay.

_He's _an idiot.

Before he can even open the phone, I snap kick the phone out of his hand, sending it flying into the wall behind him with a loud _crack!_ Then, I uppercut his jaw, roundhouse kick his ribs, then sucker-punch his face on the right, then left.

Finally, I snap kick his stomach, and Jeb collapses to the ground.

With a final, "You're an asshole," I punch him in the temple.

Lights out, Jeb.

I know that I now have about another half-an-hour before Itex is called.

I turn to the side and see Angel, frozen.

"Angel?" I ask tentatively, realizing how much I probably scared her.

Angel blinks, and then says, "I'm not staying with that man, Fang!"

I can't help but give a crooked smile at that.

"We have to hurry, Angel – come on."

I scoop her up in my arms and run out the door, releasing my wings and taking off into the sky. The wind rushes quickly past as I pour on the speed.

Where to?

I don't know.

I do know one thing, though.

My father never died.

And now, he wants me back.

* * *

**And tada! The plot thickens!**

**If things go according to plan, I'll try to update again this coming weekend.**

**Rock on.**

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Hero**_** by Skillet.**

**R&R?**


	30. Chapter 30

**Hola, readers!**

**Let's continue with another chapter of **_**ShadowDiving**_**.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride or any characters which pertain to the series.**

**

* * *

**

I land from the air a block from the Mike Kenaway building.

Or, for those not familiar with the area, the local homeless shelter.

It is only 3:20, but already a formidable line has formed outside the closed doors, waiting for five o'clock admission to begin.

Tucking in my wings, I throw a beat-up jacket on and take Angel's hands. With a deep breath, I lead her to the end of the line, taking our place in the line for a night of protection.

It's a nice back-up plan, in case the one I'm about to implement falls through.

I take that scratched-up cell phone out of my pocket and call my last contact – Iggy.

The phone rings twice before I hear a familiar voice answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Igs," I say, looking up at the sky, shifting my weight nervously.

Not that he can see that, anyway.

"What's up, Fang?" Iggy responds, the epitome of calm.

"Well," I begin, thinking through the best way to say it.

"…what happened?" Iggy says, a darkness entering his tone.

I decide to just spit it out.

"…my house erupted into flames. About three feet away from me."

There is silence on the other end.

"…oh God, Fang. Who did it?"

It takes me a moment to get the words to leave my mouth, my heart panging uncomfortably at the thought.

"My dad."

There is more silence on the other end.

"Fang," Iggy starts.

I already know what he is going to say, but I let him finish anyway.

"Fang…. Your dad died."

"I know," I respond, but it comes out an almost whisper.

"…You know that makes absolutely no sense. What do you mean?"

I can feel the pin-pricks of depression stabbing behind my eyes, but I push them back inside.

"…My dad's alive, Iggy. And I don't know how or why."

I can hear his intake of breath.

Angel squeezes my hand, momentarily shoving my focus to her.

"Fang," she says, "isn't it good that Daddy is alive? I've always wanted a daddy."

For some reason, that comment stabs me in the chest.

"_I'm not her father. I'm her brother. This is natural, for her to want a dad she never met,_" my conscience argues.

Then why do I feel so insulted?

And just because fate thinks it's so hilarious…

"Is this a good or a bad thing?" Iggy asks on the phone.

Iggy was always good at knowing what to ask, in concerns with me.

"Don't know, Igs. Right now, I'm pretty conflicted," I admit in an almost whisper. "Can…can Angel and I just crash at your house? I need some stability."

"Yeah, dude… whatever you need."

I hear Iggy call out to his mom. There is some conversation, and then Iggy is back on the line.

"Shoot, man. I… I forgot my family and I are going to New England this weekend. But listen…"

I hear him walking, a door open and close, and then the sound of the wind over the receiver.

"…don't mention this is my mom, like, EVER, but there is a spare key under the doormat. As soon as we leave in about… 3 hours, you and Angel come over and stay. Just make sure you are gone after Sunday morning. We come home Sunday afternoon or evening. THEN, ask if you can stay." Iggy explains in a hush voiced.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

_Something_ has finally gone my way.

"Thanks, Igster. This means a ton –"

"Sorry, dude, got to go. Hope you can find some other place," Iggy says, a weird tone to his voice.

"What-"

"Bye!"

Before he can hang up the phone, I hear Iggy's mom in the background.

Oh. Iggy was just covering up his conversation.

I look down at Angel.

"Well, Ange, we're gonna stay at Iggy's. Where do you want to go until then?" I ask.

She makes a cute, contorted face as she thinks through her options.

"McDonald's play place!" she exclaims, a smile spreading over her face.

I roll my eyes. Of course.

"Come on, dork," I say, leading her out of the line.

As soon as we leave the line, people readily claim our spot.

At least we have shelter, unlike all these others.

Angel and I walk to McDonald's, Angel's hand still in mine.

"Fang?" she asks me.

"Yeah?" I answer.

"…you never answered my question. Is it good that Daddy's back?" Angel asks innocently.

I look away.

"Sure, Ange," I answer, fake enthusiasm in my voice. "Sure."

* * *

It is 5:30, and Iggy's family car is out of the driveway. I beckon to Angel, and we walk up to the front porch.

I reach down to the doormat and pull it back half-way.

…But there is no key there.

Okay. Other side, then.

I pull up the other side this time.

…Still no key.

I step off the mat completely and rip the whole mat off.

…No. Key.

I look at the underside of the mat. Maybe the key is taped to the bottom of the mat.

…That was a stupid thought, and to prove it, fate makes sure there is no key under the mat.

"Angel, look through these bushes for a key," I order, smothering the rising panic I feel inside me.

Angel and I start combing through the few bushes.

Note to all who want to search, creep through, or pounce into bushes: Not. Fun. Bushes hurt.

Numerous small cuts later, Angel and I emerge from the bushes.

Shaking slightly, I search the top of the doorframe.

Then, I run to the mailbox and look inside.

As I shut the mailbox lid, I have to close my eyes, massaging my temples.

There is absolutely no key here.

I rip out the phone and dial Iggy's number, having to retype the number three times because my hands are shaking so much.

It takes Iggy two rings to answer.

"Yo, this is Iggy."

Normally, I'd make a comment about his fail attempt at being ghetto.

But, having your house burn to the ground, discovering your best friend/girlfriend's father is an evil associate for your dead father who is actually alive and wants to see you, AND finding out you possibly have no shelter for the next few days beyond a homeless shelter - really removes your sense of humor.

Man, I could use some chocolate.

…not to sound PMS-y or anything. Or at all feminine.

…guess I still have some humor.

…I'll get back to the present situation.

"Iggy, is your key invisible?"

"Huh? Noooo…"

"Then please explain to me where in the world you put the key to your living quarters, because it is most definitely not under your doormat or anywhere I can think of."

"Huh? It should have been there. I put it under the mat when we left."

….

_Iggy…_

I'm going to kill him.

"Iggy?" I say in a low, exasperated, and secretly venomous voice.

"…yeah?" he replies in a scared voice.

"You didn't forget to put in under the mat, did you?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"No! I –"

Silence.

*sigh*

"Crap," Iggy replies.

"…It's in your pocket, isn't it?" I say, annoyance building inside me but luckily not showing in my voice.

"…Yes," Iggy responds, sounding like a scolded schoolboy.

" Sigh_…Iggy_…," I scold.

"I'm sorry! I thought I had!"

I take a deep breath to calm myself down.

"Whatever."

"Dude, why don't you go stay with your dear Maxie?" Iggy says, teasing a bit at the end.

Pause.

"At the moment, the situation is not favorable for Angel and I to reside in Max's abode amongst her familia."

I really don't know what to say. I can't really talk about Jeb without delving into Itex and my wings, which Iggy knows nothing about.

"…Are you and Maxie fighting? Aw, poor sweetheart Fangles!"

"No, we are not _fighting_, retard. Max's dad is…_against_ my being in the house," I respond.

I'll let Iggy draw his own conclusion, here.

"Is he worried you two will get down and dirty?"

I admit that I choke on my spit at that, causing me to cough awkwardly.

"Oh, don't even _think _about Max and I… doing… wrong verb. But that _does_ make sense."

No, it doesn't. Jeb is just a lunatic, an evil old man.

"Well, I'm really, really sorry. I hope you can find a place to go."

"S'fine," I mutter, pushed back into my dark thoughts.

Then I hang up the phone.

"Come on, Ange," I call out to Angel.

"Where are we going, big brother?" Angel asks.

"Back to the Kenaway Building. We're going to stay in a…hotel, for tonight."

Angel smiles. "Cool!"

Guilt factor: 3.

On a scale of 1 to 5.

One being the least guilt-inducing.

* * *

We arrive at the Kenaway Building only to see the line three times as long as it was a few hours ago.

Admission started at 5.

It's now a quarter 'til 6.

The situation looks like el crap-o.

But we take our spot in line, about three blocks away from the building's entrance.

The slowly moving line gives me plenty of time to think.

As Angel starts humming some random tune, my mind suddenly freezes.

Crap. Didn't Jeb say he was going to call Itex on me, most likely after he regained consciousness?

Double crap.

As if called to, paranoia rises in my throat. I do a 360, and though I see nothing threatening, I am left with a great amount of apprehension.

It takes an hour and a half of waiting in steadily decreasing temperature, but finally Angel and I are only a few people from the invitation desk.

Right now, with how fate has been, I would not be surprised if we didn't get in after all this.

One goes in, then another, until it is finally our turn to approach the window.

"Hello," a rough voice calls out from inside a glass box. The young man looks bored out his mind.

This, readers, is the prime example for inspiring volunteers. It's so satisfying!

(Note sarcasm)

"Two spots, please," I say to the man, "or whatever you have here."

The man finally makes eye contact with me. His incredibly light blue eyes stand out against his tan skin, but for as young as I thought he was, his eyes seem aged and worn.

His mouth curves down in a frown.

"I was hoping you wouldn't show up," he says.

"Did you see me earlier?" I say.

I don't really believe what I told him, though.

Something's up.

Fang's paranoia-o-meter is sky-rocketing.

"I can't let you in," the man says, shifting his weight in a nervous fashion.

Shit.

This is what I expected would happen.

"No more spots, huh?" I ask dejectedly, feeling a hundred and two years old right now.

"I'm sorry, Fang," the man says.

How the hell does this man know my name?

"WHAT – " I start to exclaim.

However, before I can finish, the man presses a button.

And starts to morph into an Eraser.

One that I would recognize anywhere.

"Ari," I exhale out, completely shocked. "I thought you got away."

"I tried. I'm really sorry, Fang –"

He didn't need to finish his sentence.

Because the people who just entered the homeless shelter and the people waiting behind me suddenly morph in Erasers as well.

"_Shit_," I think, instinctively, pulling Angel closer.

Within seconds the Erasers are converging around us.

This is a signal for Fang to start punching some wolf-lights out.

I give a very animalistic grunt-growl, lunging into the pack in an almost predatory manner.

I swing punches left and right, kicking out my legs in every-which direction. I get hit as much as I give a hit, which I hope tapers off soon.

I receive a rather nasty kick to the stomach that makes me bend in half. I swing a left hook out to whoever is nearby while I try to regain my oxygen supply, but within seconds I am karate-chopped in the middle of my back.

I hiss and quickly release my back, causing my bruised stomach to protest greatly.

The pain in my back, without my permission, causes my wings to extend a little.

I don't know if it is a reaction to the hit, like a lever or something, or if it is my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in.

I don't really care, for another Eraser grabs the tips of my wings and _pulls_.

That hurts like _fuck_, in case any of you ever get in this situation.

I have to bite my lip seriously hard to not scream like a little girl, causing my lip to start bleeding.

In my moment of vulnerability, two other Erasers come at me, one grabbing me in a choke hold and the other pulling my arms behind my already sore back.

I thrash around as much as possible, trying to escape the clutches of evil.

Then, I see Angel across from me, in the arms of an Eraser, crying.

"FANG!" she screams, sobbing.

"ANGEL!" I yell hoarsely, feeling the last of my emotional wall starting to crumble. "ANGEL!"

In a bout of fury, I bite the arm of the choke-hold Eraser, trying anything to get away.

Anything to get to Angel.

I kick and thrash and continue to bite as choke-hold Eraser screams like a little girl, cursing me to hell.

"Stop the thing!" someone yells.

A _bang _sounds through the air.

And then, I feel something slam into my leg.

A gun, across the circle, is smoking in the hand of Jeb.

The bastard.

I can't help myself – the pain is too great – and I yell out in agony as my thigh starts bleeding profusely.

I thrash even harder, pulling out my last reserves of energy.

"GO TO HELL, JEB! GOD DAMN YOU!" I scream at Jeb, furious.

"Take the girl away," Jeb says. "Don't harm her – Mr. Westonville will not want to see his daughter harmed."

Angel screams as the Eraser carries her away. "FANG-"

Then, another Eraser thrusts a tranquilizer dart into her neck, silencing her cries.

"ANGEL!" I scream helplessly, my eyes watering.

"Don't fight this, Fang – it's time to go home," Jeb speaks calmly.

"God _DAMN_ you to _HELL_, Jeb! Go fucking _die in a hole _–"

"Shut the thing, up, son!" Jeb says, sounding _exasperated and annoyed._

The douche.

"Don't tell me _Gazzy _is evil too!" I shout, defying Jeb.

"What?" Jeb asks, confused.

"That boy's not his son," a voice answers.

I look with shock to see Ari approaching me.

"Ari…_no_…," I whisper out.

"Don't fight this, please," Ari says, sounding defeated and aged.

I don't listen, of course.

I kick my captor's legs, ignoring the shooting pain in my right thigh. I struggle as Ari gets increasingly closer.

Finally, I try a last resort.

I whip out my wings rapidly to full length, slamming my captors back with the force of it.

That _hurts_.

Free of immediate capture, I start to run to get Angel, only to crumple to the ground a few steps later from the pain in my leg, my whole _body_, and lightheadedness from blood loss.

I can only lie there in agony, my hope defeated, as Ari leans over me.

"I'm sorry," Ari says a final time.

Then, the tranquilizer dart hits my neck, and I feel a tear finally run down my face as the black consumes me.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Let the Flames Begin**_** by Paramore.**

**R&R?**


	31. Chapter 31

**Hola….**

**I feel bad about this… but…**

**Not much will happen.**

**But hey! It's better than nothing.**

**(Stupid AP Chem. Stupid essays. Stupid document analysis project.)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride or anything. Just so ya know.**

* * *

I wake up in pain.

I haven't woken up in pain for a while.

_Ow_.

I feel like all my joints have been pulled, punched, and used in a game of ping-pong.

What in the world did I _do_ yesterday?

...

My eyes snap open as I recall yesterday's adventures.

Immediately, I start to panic as I spot metal bars a foot away from my face.

Great, another cage.

However, I start to realize moments later that I am not cramped up in a small area.

I can _move_.

I raise my head and scan my habitat.

I'm in a holding cell.

That's unusual.

I turn around and see Angel curled up in the corner of the cell.

A small cut lines her forehead, and a bruise is forming on her left cheek.

"_I'm going to kill them,_" I think to myself.

Crawling over to Angel, I shake her shoulders, seeing if she is still unconscious or just asleep.

You could say I was a little relieved when I hear her groan and see her eyes flutter open.

"Fang?" Angel says in a groggy voice.

"I'm right here, Ange," I say, pulling her into my lap.

As her eyes focus they suddenly widen in fright.

"Fang! Where are we? Are we back at that bad place?" she asks with evident fear.

"I don't know, Ange – but as soon as I can, we are going to bust out, understand? But until then, I need you to be a trooper for me. Can you do that, recruit?" I say, looking her in the eye.

She gives a weak smile and salutes me. "Aye aye, Captain."

I give her a small smile in return. "Atta girl."

I grow serious again. "Anything hurt?"

Angel points to her forehead and cheek, but nothing else. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Ok. That's good."

"Kiss it to make it better?" Angel asksinnocently.

Aw.

"Sure," I say, pecking her forehead and cheek. "All better."

I can't forget that Angel is still only seven; she shouldn't be involved in this crap - like I am.

Angel leans forward and pecks my cheek.

"What was that for?" I ask her.

"Kiss to make _your_ hurts better," Angel replies with a smile.

How did I get so lucky?

"Thanks, Ange."

Suddenly, the cell door slams open.

"I hate to end this touching, mushy scene, but Mr. Westonville wants to see you now," a short, squat, balding whitecoat says.

Mr. Bald, Old, and Evil.

"I see your still employed – guess I should have ratted you out for gaming during work hours after all," I say, my mouth forming into a snarl.

BOE frowns.

"Come quietly and no excessive force will be required," BOE says.

I **_so_** want to scream, "Oh yeah? Bring it on, fattie!"

But I look at Angel.

And I can't risk her safety for my personal pride.

Ugh.

So I shallow my shame and head out the door, tugging Angel along.

BOE smiles wickedly. "I see they finally broke you. I thought you would have held out longer –"

"You have _no idea_ what crap I've been through, squatter," I interrupt, practically radiating fury. "Are your kids in danger of being experimented on? What the hell would _you_ do if they were? Eat a donut?"

BOE shuts up, though he mutters under his voice, "I wouldn't eat a donut."

A few minutes more of silence passes before BOE stops at a white room (not shocking). Inside, there are showers, mirrors, and people in aprons carrying bottles of who-knows-what.

"If you'd just step inside, we will clean and make you up for your father."

I still don't know how to deal with my father's sudden appearance in my life. The reactions range from sad, happy, confused, angry, curious, creeped out, and longing.

So me being Fang, I chose the easiest one to deal with.

Anger.

I glare at BOE and raise my eyebrow.

Fang's Glare-O-Death™.

It's pretty scary.

Hence, BOE can't look me in the eye anymore.

"It's for you own convenience –"

I grab BOE's shirt and force him to look me in the eye.

"Listen to me; Daddy-Dearest should see how well his kids _really_ are after his 7-year disappearance. Understood?" I whisper with frightening vengeance in my tone.

I think BOE just peed himself a little.

That's embarrassing.

He nods. "O-o-ok-kay."

He leads us forward out of the white-walled, white-floored lab area into a more office-like place. Red carpet resides on the floor while the walls are adorned with crème paint. Every few feet there is some sort of artistic picture or painting. At the end of the hallway is a dark-colored wood door with a gold plaque hanging above it.

_Mr. James Westonville, Corporate Executive Officer_.

BOE knocks on the door three times.

A voice calls out, "Come in."

BOE opens the door and ushers Angel and I in.

A large glass window lines the back of the room, which is opposite the door we just entered. The carpet is a navy blue now, and the walls have intricate gold swirls on them. A large mahogany desk sits in front of us, with two plush navy chairs arranged in front.

On the desk are some papers, some picture frames, a bottle of pens, and another plaque stating _Mr. James Westonville_.

Behind the desk, a large, black swivel chair has its back to Angel and I.

The sound of the door slamming shut reverberates in the wide room.

The chair turns around, and the man inside the chair wears a clean pinstripe suit, red glasses, clear blue eyes, dark brown hair –

And a faded, pinkish scar on his neck.

My father smiles at me.

"Hello, Fang. Welcome home."

* * *

**No musical dedication this time. **

**I hope to get a longer chapter out later.**

**I really do apologize.**

**I guess last chapter wasn't great: only two people left their thoughts on it.**

**Thank you, Alactricity and Jessica Jay Jackson, for your remarks. They are very much appreciated. **

**You can R&R, but it's not really necessary.**

**~Dancing On My Toes~**


	32. Chapter 32

**I said I would update on Friday, did I not?**

**I am not sure where I will take this, so bear with me.**

**Thank you, everyone, for your wonderful reviews!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

* * *

_Previously on ShadowDiving:_

"_Hello, Fang. Welcome home."_

My father.

The man I thought I had lost forever.

The man I had hoped would magically come back – for seven years.

But it's been seven years of abuse, of hatred, of sacrifice, of becoming independent and a caretaker.

It's been seven years of hell, and the man I thought could save me has been sitting behind a desk, clearly alive.

_Welcome home_.

Welcome home?

This isn't a home.

A dad that obverses you. A 'family' that controls the experiment of your life. Variables that are manipulated to ruin your life.

This can't be home.

No.

This will never be home.

But how can I convey this in a sentence? A paragraph? How can I explain my hatred, my pain, my sorrow, built over seven years of abandonment?

How can I demonstrate what I believe, think, feel?

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Well, let's paint.

Canvas: Father.

Tools: Anything attached to my main bone structure.

Wonder what I can paint?

I say nothing in response to his deceivingly warm sentiment and stare at him steadily. No emotion leaks past the Great Wall of Fang I have just constructed inside myself.

There is no clock on the wall to tell the passing of time. No tapping of a pen, no birds.

Just silence, for a moment.

Then, I spring forward, swinging my right arm back and around to meet my father's face.

Hey, look, that makes red/purple appear on the canvas.

My father's big leather chair topples over backwards as my father flies backwards, the force of my punch offsetting his previously seated position.

I follow his trajectory, so when he hits the floor, I am already swinging the next punch again, this time to his chest.

Air exhales harshly from his mouth as my fist pounds his lungs.

He quickly sucks in air, only to be met by a punch to the side of his head.

"Why… are you hitting me!" my father yells.

Instead of sounding angry, he sounds scared… and confused.

Can't he give it up? Can't he stop _now_, when I obviously know everything?

"_Why?" _I hiss out, more fury than I've ever released displaying in my tone.

I elbow his abdomen and then harshly jerk up his shoulders so he can face me.

Staring into the face of my father used to be like looking in the mirror; his facial features match mine. He was my best friend, my hero, my inspiration for every action.

It seems, however, the mirror has cracked.

The face I stare into is aged - his hair is greyer, his face is softer, and his blue eyes shine in sharp contrast to my dark, dark brown ones.

How could I have ever thought he was like me? We are entirely different people.

Gripping onto the shoulders of my father, I can't remember ever feeling so emotional. I am literally shaking with fury; my mind is consumed with it, the complete betrayal working its way into every fiber of my being. My chest hurts, and if I didn't have extra-large lungs from my avian genes, I would swear my throat feels tight.

I realize that I'm teetering on a dangerous precipice – behind this raw, cold rage is sadness seven years deep. If something breaks through this wall of anger I've established, I'm going to break down in tears. Holding in my emotions has weakened my ability to rein them in once they escape, and with so many feelings flying around, I'm going to slip up somewhere.

However, I'm clinging tightly to the cliff edge, hoping the rage will last until I say my piece. Then, victory can wash over and pin in my high-tide emotional ocean.

My father matches my gaze.

"What has happened to you, Fang?" my father asks in a quiet, despaired voice.

Almost like scolding.

Like I'm the failure, now.

My pinkie has lost its grip on the precipice.

But, as in war, even when defeat is on its way, we still try by sending in more soldiers.

Bring on the anger.

"What happened to me? _**You**_," I say just as quietly, nothing but iciness in my voice.

My father looks at me in confusion.

"Me?" he asks, sounding genuinely lost.

What an evil, lying…ugh.

"_**YOU**_!" I yell, throwing him back onto the floor. "You have made my life HELL! I thought you died – but _no_. _YOU HAVE BEEN ALIVE THIS WHOLE TIME_! Observing me like an experiment!"

"What are you talking –"

"Don't you _**dare**_ try to act innocent. You were sitting in a large black chair, running an underground organization that experiments on people – like me!"

I take the moment to harshly whip out my fourteen foot wingspan, the black wings beating strongly before settling. The wind disrupts the papers on the desk, sending them soaring into the air.

My father's eyes bug out from his head.

"HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN –"

"Stop trying to act like you haven't seen ANY of this! I _know,_ God damn it, I _**know**_ you know all this!"

"Fang, you have GIANT WINGS ON YOUR BACK –"

"What, so you haven't been watching? Just been reading reports from your subordinates? Newsflash: the wings have been a _pretty big deal_ since you 'died!' You have surely read about this –"

"Fang, who _**did this!**_"

"Mom!" I yell, fury happily flowing freely. "Mom did this! She's done _everything_ that's happened in my life!"

"Oh, God, she's gone too far –"

But I wasn't finished before; so, I interrupt.

"No duh! She's the reason I've never been scar-free for longer than a few weeks! She's the one who has abused me the past seven years of my life! She's the one who has tried to attack Angel!" I scream now, pointing at wide-eyed Angel.

"Angel –" he tries to start.

"Don't you _**DARE**_ _say her name, you bastard_! You haven't been there for her at all! Where have you been the past SEVEN YEARS?"

"Fang, let me explain –"

"Where were you when I had to battle Mom when she came home tipsy most nights? Where were you when I was so beaten up, I could hardly function? Where were you when I had to try to find money to support the family? Where were you when I had to take crap at school? Where were you when I was captured into labs? Where were you when I had to escape them? Where were you when Angel was sick and I had to miss school? Where were you when I had to _**REPLACE YOU?**_"

"Fang –"

"Where were you on all my forgotten birthdays? Where were you when I didn't know what to do? When I sat crying by the spot where I thought you died? When I had to grow up too fast! When my own mother _raped me_?"

My father is finally silent.

The silence is suffocating in the room.

My lungs are heaving, and my heart feels heavy. I know I can only hold on for a little bit longer.

I'm hanging onto the edge of the cliff with only two fingers.

"Where have you been this whole time? You could have stopped all of this," I say, my voice a faint sound.

A drop of water rolls down from blue eyes.

"God dammit," I mutter, kicking the desk as I walk back around to the other side of the desk.

I look at my father, still frozen on the floor, his face blossoming with dark purple marks.

The situation crashes down onto my mountain. The edge breaks off, and I feel myself fall away even as I stand perfectly safe in this executive office.

"Why does everything I believe in turn out to be a _LIE_?" I spit out, betrayal flooding out, and I slam my hands onto the desk harshly.

A resounding _BOOM_ fills the room.

As soon as my hands hit, all my strength is gone. My head falls forward as my body slumps back into the chair behind me. My arms hang limply by my side. My overlong bang's obscure my eyes as they close, defeated.

Hot tears fall from my closed eyes, finally released from captivity.

All my life, I've never felt truly alone.

Sure, I've felt like no one could really understand me.

But I've always had someone to look up to, someone to inspire me, someone I could hold in a good light.

Suddenly, though, I've been thrust into a dark corner, all by myself. My last idol has crashed into the ground. My last grip on what I thought was certain has disappeared.

Where do I go from here?

How can ever trust again?

I open my eyes as something climbs into my lap. Blonde curls surround a round face that suddenly looks much older than seven. Blue eyes glisten with moisture as silent, fat tears drizzle down her face.

Angel doesn't say anything.

She settles onto my lap, leans her head against my chest, wraps her arms around my torso, and just holds me.

Holds _me_.

I immediately throw my arms around her, hugging her tightly to me with newfound strength. Tears flow freely and quickly from my eyes now.

Her tears stain my T-shirt.

Mine splatter her shirt and the floor.

But neither of us care.

We just hold each other in silence, both of us needing the other.

I do still have a remaining beacon of light.

Angel.

She will forever be my reason for fighting every day. My reason for giving it all without relief.

Because I must keep protecting her.

Keep fighting.

Keep supporting.

Because we are both alone.

We have both been abandoned.

We have both been through more than we should have.

But we have been pulled together by crisis.

And we shall overcome all the shadows we dive into.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Dresden Wine **_**by Andrew Ripp. A beautifully sad song for an emotionally straining chapter.**

**I really do recommend you look this song up. I was listening to it after I updated this chapter, and it's almost a perfect match to this chapter (for once).**

**The first verse is like Fang singing to his dad. Then, the second verse is like his father replying. It's beautiful, sad, and ironically exactly like the chapter.**

**R&R?**


	33. Chapter 33

**Hola, mis readers! I hope you are doing fine.**

**I am updating this final chapter in the Meet My Father mini-series of ShadowDiving before I disappear for Easter.**

**Happy Unofficial Chocolate Bunny Day!**

**I love breaks from school.**

**Anyway.**

**I'll be a little MIA for the next two weeks, or IT SUCKS TO BE ME Week as I have been referring to it. Lots of tests and performances, all crammed together.**

**Ugh.**

**But I hope this chapter will be satisfactory for now. =D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights belong to JP.**

* * *

Angel and I hold each other in this moment of complete desperation, finding each other to be the only thing we have left.

Of course, moments never last very long.

Insert Bane-of-my-Existence, commonly recognized as 'my father.'

"Fang…. I know you don't really like me right now…"

I look up from Angel's shoulders. I'm sure my face looks like crap, but I slap on the coldest glare I can anyway.

"You're one of the top five people I want to _spork_ to death right now," I say.

My father gives me a funny look at my threat, but continues on, standing up from the floor.

"But, Fang, you have to believe me when I say I didn't know any of what has happened to you while I was gone."

Bull.

Shit.

I scoff, my bitter, hollow anger resurfacing.

"Like hell you didn't."

"Fang, why do you think I am the enemy? What have I done to destroy your trust in me?"

"You haven't done anything," I say bitterly.

"Then why –"

"You haven't done a damn thing. That's why I don't trust you, don't you get it? You didn't come and help me. Didn't come and help Angel. You left me to be the step-in father and deal with what you left behind. You didn't do anything. And you could have."

My father stares steadily at me, remorse in his eyes, but it's not enough. I want him to understand what he's done, make him suffer.

"Fang…," he begins, closing his eyes.

I give him a hard stare, daring him to defend his guilty actions.

"Fang," he starts again, "How could I have saved you when I didn't know what was going on with you?"

"Don't tell me you didn't know!" I yell, lifting Angel off as I stand up before placing her back in the seat. "Of course you knew! I know you knew!"

"How do you 'know' I knew, Fang? I thought you thought I was dead!" he yells, growing angry for some unknown reason.

"I did!" I yell back, slamming my hands on the desk dented from my previous attack.

_Crack_.

The desk develops a measurable crack on its surface.

My father stares at the desk in wonder, then back at me.

"Part of the bird-kid genes," I mutter out, "but you knew that."

"No, I didn't. Fang, how long have you known I was alive?"

"I never knew you were alive. I just suspected – there was a ton of evidence –"

"Evidence?"

"I kept seeing you everywhere! You appeared in my backyard during a blizzard, when I was randomly knocked unconscious, and in my school, by the gym, after I had pulled a prank. When Angel and I's house was _set to explode_ your phrase "back to reality" was written in flames in the backyard. Then Jeb revealed he was evil and –"

"Jeb? Max's dad?"

"Familiar? He apparently works for you!"

My father gives me a confused look, and it's hard for me to convince myself he is just acting because he looks so sincere.

"Jeb doesn't work for me, Fang."

"Then why would he tell me he did? He was right about you being alive. It's pretty logical to assume he wasn't lying about working for a bastard like you!"

My father gives me a hard, sad stare.

"Is this really what you think of me?"

I don't respond, which is an answer greater than anything I could have said.

He looks down at his feet, sighs, and then raises his head again. "What did Jeb tell you he did for me?"

_Finally, no lies_. "He observed me – under your orders. Keeping tabs on my struggles."

Dad clenches his fists at this. "God, I'm going to kill her –"

"Her?" I ask, confused.

My father looks up at me, a subtle fury in his eyes. "Jeb doesn't work for me. He works for your mother."

"No, he doesn't – stop lying!"

"Yes, he does, Fang. He's worked with your mother in MAYHEM since before you were born. Jeb and your mother were friends, and at the time, Max's mother – Valencia – didn't work, so you guys would have play sessions while your mother and I were at work. Remember that?"

I didn't want to admit it, but he was telling the truth about Max and I – I remember going to her house after school when I was younger.

That didn't mean the rest was lies.

"Even if Jeb works with Mom, that doesn't mean you aren't his boss! You're freaking CEO of some sick science building – is this Itex?"

God, I'd been so stupid.

My father must be CEO of Itex.

"What the hell is Itex?" my father asks, confused.

"Don't know about Itex? About evil experimentation labs? Then explain why I was attacked and kidnapped by a band of Erasers – an experiment of Itex?" I yell back, tired of his bologna.

"What are Erasers?"

"Wolf-human hybrids that have made my life hell –"

"Wolf-human HYBRIDS?"

"Don't act stupid!"

"I'm not acting, Fang – I don't know any of what you are telling me –"

"Stop LYING TO ME!"

"I'M NOT!"

The room is silent after my father's loud outburst. His chest heaves, regaining the breath lost in our shouting match.

"How can I make you believe me?" my father asks me, desperate. "Hook me up to a lie-detector? Sign a contract in blood? I can't make you trust me, Fang, but you have to believe that I haven't been making your life crap – your mother has. I'm not her, Fang – I tried to leave because of her!"

"You faked your death and left me behind!"

"Is that what you think? That I _faked_ my own death to leave my family? Let me tell you what happened, Fang. Your mother _attacked _me in a drunken rage. This scar is real – she did cut at my throat. I _did_ lie bleeding on our house's carpet – for a long time. But remember how your mother locked you in your room after the incident?"

I did – Mom had used the bloody knife – with Dad's blood on it – to move me to my room. Then, she locked me inside, leaving me to sit on my bed in silent suffering.

"After you were locked up, your mother left, to go to a bar or something, I assume. _I was still alive in the living room_. You didn't know it, your mother didn't know it – no one except me did. I was in excruciating pain, and I almost passed out from blood loss. Somehow, though, I managed to stay conscious. I knew I had to act dead, though, if I wanted to stay alive – it sounds ironic, but if your mother knew she hadn't killed me, that she hadn't pressed the blade in deep enough, I would have certainly been killed – successfully. So I lay, in a pretty critical condition, on the carpet until she left. I had to drag myself slowly to your mother and I's room, to our bathroom. I don't even know now how I managed to get to the medical supplies in the shelf above the sink, but I found myself heavily leaning on the sink, heavy gauze held up to my neck as I tried to hold the cut skin closed. I dialed a friend of mine's number and asked him to drive me to the hospital. I knew better than to dial 911 – your mother would have found out, one, but the police would probably tried to take you away from us into foster care, since the family and household were too dangerous. So I waited until Frank showed up. The door was unlocked, thank God, because I couldn't have gone to the door anyway. Frank found me in the bathroom and helped me move. I'm sure his shirt was so bloody, but he didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything – what could be said? We were about to leave, and even then I knew I wouldn't come back, when I remembered you, Fang. My son – I loved you, and I still love you. I couldn't leave you behind. I told Frank to get you out. He tried your doorknob – that's how I found out it was locked. Frank even tried kicking down the door, but he couldn't. He said it was like something was against the door on the other side."

There had been – I'd put my dresser, my books, and anything I could get a hold of in front of that door. I was afraid Mom would come back inside and attack me, kill me like I thought she had with Dad. When I heard the lock turning and the loud pounding, I stayed silent and hid, praying she didn't get past my barrier.

I had been relieved when the pounding stopped and the footsteps faded away.

Now, though…

Some deep emotion stirs uneasily in my stomach, but I don't know what it was or what to do with it – so I smother it and keep listening with a blank stare.

"Frank eventually gave up and pulled me to the car. 'I'm sorry, James,' he told me. 'I couldn't break it down – it was like something was against the door on the other side.' I remember demanding that he come back as soon as I was in the hospital and get the door open no matter what – pick the lock, drill a hole in it, whatever it took."

My father looks at me, a shine to his eyes and some unknown emotion swimming in them.

"I couldn't stand leaving you behind, Fang. You were the world. You still are. I never forgot you."

He takes a breath to steady himself.

"I just didn't know how to save you."

He looks at me for a moment before continuing.

"As Frank drove to the hospital – I think we were about half-way there, though I don't really remember – we saw your mother's car, heading back to home. She didn't see us, but we saw her – there was no mistake. It was at that point that I knew I couldn't get you out. As soon as she saw my body was gone, she would know – she would know I was alive. And I knew that as soon as she knew she'd been tricked, she would keep you under lockdown. It would be awhile before I could try to rescue you."

"I tried, Fang – multiple times. But your mother was watching for this – I know now that Jeb was watching out for me. He wasn't observing you for me, Fang. He was observing when I'd come for _you_ – and she thwarted every attempt. As soon as I'd arrive, you would magically be gone – for days. The time I remember most distinctly was when you were walking downtown, past the park – I remember this, because I actually _saw _you for the first time in seven years. I saw you, and I was about to approach, get your attention or something, when suddenly your mother appeared. She stared right at me, glaring, and somehow sped up inhumanly fast and grabbed your arm. Her message was clear – 'You won't get him.' I saw you right hook her in the face and run. That made me so proud. I ran along in the shadows, waiting to snatch you, but I was losing you – you were running _so fast_. Then, suddenly, a man tackled you, your mother walked up, and I knew I couldn't get you. So I left."

I remember that day – when I'd found out Jasmine was a fraud, and I'd walked into some unknown allies. I'd ended up kidnapped in Mayhem, and I remember being surprised that Mom had happened to be in the ally at the exact time I was.

My father continued.

"I don't know why you saw me in a blizzard – I remember that blizzard, and I was shut up in the office, waiting out the storm. And I never went to your school – ever, even when you were alive. But I did order your house to be burnt down."

"WHAT –" I start to exclaim.

"I didn't want to. Didn't you notice how expert the timing was? I ordered it that you wouldn't be in the house, but you might have enough time to get belongings by the time you found out."

"You burnt our belongings, our income, our _memories_ –"

"I didn't want to, Fang! But I had to! I finally realized that the only way I could get you out of that prison-cell house was to burn down the house! So I had some associates rig it up. I never told them to have the message 'back to reality' in the backyard. Someone must have come up with that on their own. I also ordered for a group of agents to kidnap you – with _extensive_ orders not to harm you or Angel."

At this point he looks at me, my body obviously displaying my battle wounds.

"Obviously, they didn't listen."

I smirk. "I gave them a run for their money."

He smiles proudly, "You always were so strong."

His smile fades, and he adds more to his explanation. "I asked a group of humans to do it – I don't know about any wolf-hybrids. I didn't even know such a thing existed. So as to why you were captured by these mutants –"

"Wait," I say.

Something has _dinged!_ in the Fang-o-meter.

"Jeb was there, too. The Erasers I've always fought came from Mayhem and Itex."

My father gives a startled look, and then grows into a fury so pure I know he isn't acting.

"God damn your mother –"

"What do you mean –"

"She almost got you again! She almost won! Damn her, that fucking bitch –"

"Mom sent the Erasers?"

"Keeps beating up her son, just so I can't save you –"

"Dad?"

He stops his muttering at my utterance.

I called him Dad.

I hadn't called him Dad out loud this whole meeting.

But something has clicked. Things are sliding into place. Things are making sense.

"When Jeb and the Erasers were attacking, he kept saying 'Mr. Westonville doesn't want his children hurt…let's go home…' He kept making references to you. Excessively. Like he was …"

I stop, eyes wide.

"Like he was trying to convince me," I finish, whispering in disbelief.

I look at my father with new eyes.

"During the blizzard, when I thought I saw you, I was knocked out. I didn't remember I'd even seen you until I say Jeb again, in his house, after he looked at me over his shoulder as he walked away. It triggered your face. But it wasn't you I saw – it was Jeb. That's why I was knocked out! Because I couldn't see he was spying on me! Then, at the school, you were still wearing that blood-spattered suit. Why would you wear a blood-spattered suit seven years later? Mom's been tormenting me – it's all been a trick! She's just messing with my mind. And the fire – it played out so well. But I remember when I talked to Jeb after the fire, trying to find a place to stay, he'd been annoyed. I thought he was just a douche at first, but it was actually because you had done something without him knowing! He realized you were coming. And it worked out so well with the fire – he used it to spin a tale of him working for you, and it messed with my mind further. He knew you were trying to get me, so when I went to stand in line at the Kenaway homeless shelter, he attacked. And Ari – Ari is Jeb's son, and he was captured by Itex, which is where Mom is now. Oh God…"

I'd never said so much in so little time.

But all the pieces keep falling into place.

"And my guys must have captured you from Jeb and his… creatures," my father finishes, his eyes alight with revelation.

"But what about Bald, Old, and Evil?" I ask.

"Who?" my father asks, confused.

I think back to when I saw his real name, so long ago.

"Dr. Sharthal," I say.

"I hired him a month ago. He was fired from his other job. Why?"

I start laughing at the fact that he was fired.

"What?" my father asks, his confusion deepening.

"Sharthal used to work for Itex. I doubt he actually got fired. I figure he's more a plant then anything."

My father's face grows dark. "Damn your mother…"

But one last thing is haunting me.

"Why do you have cells and lab-looking rooms in this building?" I ask.

The final test.

I think my father knows this, and he knows that if his answer is in the least bit fishy, he'll lose any ground he's gained.

He sighs.

"I won't lie to you, Fang. We are a medicinal research company. The labs are for developing products and testing rooms. We perform clinical trials on developed drugs. We've had some … bad reactions to medicine before, to say the least. So we created holding cells for the more _violent_ reactions."

I stare at him long and hard.

He meets my gaze, awaiting my verdict.

Angel comes to stand next to me, her eyes looking up at me in interest.

I look back at my father.

"Well," I say, "What are you going to do now that you've saved us?"

My father smiles.

Not an evil smile.

Not a cunning smile.

A real, happy, genuine smile.

And the emotion swimming in his eyes finally clicks.

_Love_.

"We're running away. Where do you want to go?"

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Nothing and Everything **_**by Red.**

**I'll be gone for a bit, but I'll still receive notices on the story, like feedback, and I'll try to respond.**

**R&R?**


	34. Chapter 34

**Hello, my readers!**

**I finally have time to update! Super yay!**

**However, have you ever had time to update after forever, but when you sit down to type a chapter, you are like, "…what the heck am I going to write?"**

**I've had a bit of writer's block. Please forgive me.**

**Once I get this done, I'll have a path, and updating won't seem so difficult. But right now, I'm smashing my head against a wall, trying to decide what path to take.**

**Ugh. Bear with me.**

**Anyway, it's chapter 34! Never thought I'd arrive here, honestly. I have to thank everyone who has subscribed, favorite-d, and reviewed this story! It's truly inspirational. Without such fantastic feedback, I would never have made it so far.**

**Without further adieu, Chapter 34!**

**Disclaimer: I am a girl. A young girl. Not an old man who owns Maximum Ride and is screwing up the series. So yeah.**

* * *

Outside the small, desolate town that Angel and I lived in for our whole lives, there is a huge world.

So when my father asked me where I wanted to run to, I didn't have an answer.

I never contemplated a dream life. Hope only lead to broken dreams and broken bones in my life. Why make an ideal world I'd never live?

But here it is: opportunity – and I don't know what to do with it.

They say opportunity knocks.

However, this time, it's more like it barged into your house while you were taking a shower; you aren't expecting it, never heard it enter, and now it's just your naked self and guest opportunity in a greatly awkward situation.

Insert awkward turtle symbol.

I thought about London, Paris, Berlin… all the great cities of the world that I've never been to.

But that's a completely foreign culture to me – figuratively and literally – and if I want to create a new home, the place better feel similar to home.

Without the drunken attacks and pot aroma, of course.

I thought about the regions of North America I've never seen – the heat of Arizona, the frozen tundra of Alaska, the cotton fields of the Southeast.

But I can't imagine myself in any of those places, either.

Truth is, I can't imagine myself in any place except my hometown. I'm afraid of change. I don't want to embrace change.

However, I know change is necessary, because everything changes. Places change; education changes; lives change; people change. Everything undergoes some sort of transformation. Change is unavoidable.

Doesn't make it any easier.

In my old life, change means pain. Change means having to formulate a new plan of escape, a new plan of defense, and a new way to keep Angel safe. Change means having to fight my way out of labs, battling new creatures, and rescuing siblings from evil institutions. Change means finding fathers that I once thought were gone forever, and change means trusting them enough to run away from a crumbling life to an uncertain, possibly worse life.

But life means taking risks.

And this is a HUGE risk.

But I've got to move on. Safety is never guaranteed by consistency.

So, when my father asked me where I wanted to go, I replied, "What's the closest place you've got?"

And here we are – Angel, my father, and I – in this desolate, middle-of-nowhere corn field outside the city limits of my hometown.

It's about a 30 minute fly to the city from here.

All around the shabby, small shack are miles of greening corn stalks, swaying in the warm spring-going-on-summer winds. The tall plants tower above the roof of the house, which is just a few feet off the ground – because the house is underground.

Yes, I just said underground.

The house is like a large burrow. Our walls are made of hardened dirt, covered by a thin sheet of grey, heavy clay. There is a small kitchen that merges into an open room with two wood chairs and a solitary window near the ceiling. Two other rooms exist: a bathroom and a bedroom. The bathroom consists of a shabby straw door and a rusting metal shower head – no toilet.

All your business must be done _outside_ the house.

The bedroom holds a wood-framed single bed, on which a soft mattress and an old checkered quilt reside. Using some hastily-acquired material, rope, and wood pegs, we constructed a hammock over the bed. As Dad had requested Angel and I take the room, opting to sleep in an old camping sleeping bag in the open room instead, Angel and I placed all our meager belongings onto its floor. I told Angel to sleep on the hammock.

She fits.

It'd be less painful if she fell on me, rather than me falling onto her.

And here I am now, at night, with Angel sleeping above me. I hear her deep, even, slow breaths, a lullaby to my paranoid soul.

How poetic I am…kind of.

Don't comment.

I look over to the wall opposite the bed and see my own handwriting staring back at me. Seven pages, a letter on each page, shine slightly in the almost darkness. A small candle sits in the corner of the room, illuminating the area with a faint yellow tint.

The black permanent marker letters are great contrast to the college-ruled paper. Tacked into the wall with some sticks, the papers make me feel at home.

The home I had before it burned down.

On the seven pages, collectively, is one word.

**FREEDOM**

Beneath it, a rough sketch of a hawk soaring in the open sky hangs.

A statement of my current status and my dreams for the future, the word hangs to remind me that, in fact, I could have happiness after all.

I look away from the wall, relaxed but unable to sleep.

My mind just can't shut off.

To solve this conundrum, I finally rise from the bed silently and pad my way over to the open doorway, passing through to the open room. From the moonlight shining through the small window, I can make out my sleeping father's figure, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath he takes. Not wishing to disturb his peaceful slumber, I creep past as silently as possible, climb the dirt stairs, and open the door, emerging into the cool night.

My bare feet feel the cool earth beneath them; my face feels the light, cool breeze that blows across this cornfield. The sky is illuminated with millions of small pinpricks.

Stars.

In the city (and in the labs), I never really saw stars. You could see some of them, but the dark expanse was always shrouded by streetlights and late-night workers in office buildings. But here, in the middle of nowhere, the black sky is completely visible. I just never expected it to be so brilliant.

People say there are pictures in the sky. I guess I could see why they say that. There are so many stars; how can you _not_ make a picture out of them? It's a connect-the-dot picture with billions of outcomes; you can't lose.

In the sky, you can't lose.

I let my wings out, enjoying the feeling of the breeze lightly ruffling my primary feathers. I give a few tentative flaps, shaking out any immediate stiffness or cramps. In the dark, my wings almost blend in.

Heck, _I_ almost blend in.

Not that I need that, what with the invisibility and all.

I walk further into the corn field, pushing stalks away as I pass through them. It doesn't take long for the house to become completely hidden in the stalks – a reassuring but slightly worrying prospect. It could be so easy for someone to hide in here… or for someone to get lost.

Like Angel.

I shove my worried thoughts away. I came out here to clear my mind, not trouble it further.

I can't help but continue to question my decision to run away with my father – to trust him. Was I right in this? Or was I too impulsive? It goes against all the lessons I've learned over the past seven years.

Then again, my father's absence contributed to my learning the lessons.

It's so odd – I said I forgave my father, basically. I keep telling myself I forgive him. But I am not truly there. Is forgiveness ever definite? I can't imagine. Healing takes time, but forgiveness? There will always be a part of me that remembers what I suffered and resent him for my pain. Can forgiveness coexist with bitter memories? I can't force myself to forget – I need the past. It's how I've learned to survive.

I never felt this conflict with Max – instant forgiveness wasn't necessary. Eventually, I just found myself trusting her again. She helped me through the latest rough patches – she became my best friend again… and more.

Max. I've taken the biggest leap of my life, and in the process, I've left her behind. I never said goodbye.

I just vanished, like she did to my friendship so long ago.

I look back the way I came from, as if I could see the house. Max's house is only a 30 minute flight from here; I could see her now, say goodbye, sort my confused thoughts.

But do I trust my father – and fate – to take care of Angel while I'm gone? Is it worth the risk?

I continue to look at the spot where the house is hidden, as if I could see Angel sleeping and feel at peace. Can I believe we are safe, if only for a couple hours?

I guess so – the only way we can ever live and move on to greatness is to take some risks.

With this thought, I take off running, going several yards before launching into the dark sky.

Flying in the sky at night is terrific; with the stars illuminated above you for endless miles, you don't feel like there are any limits in the world.

You are totally and hopeless free.

At night, the world is so quiet – so different. Peaceful.

Deceiving.

It looks like the world could never have hatred, pain, war… anything evil. The world is totally calm.

But it's a lie – it's a disguise. The world never has absolute peace. Maybe it's because the world is never all in night or all in day at the same time. Maybe it's just the difference in the creatures that inhabit it. But it's all a façade – this dark, endless peace – that tricks men into blissful unawareness.

And that causes pain.

But for now, I enjoy the deception, enjoying the relative peace while I can.

30 minutes passes quickly; before I know it, I am soaring over the city, hopefully invisible to the lighted town below. Just beyond the city is a darker section, only illuminated by occasional street lamps.

Max's neighborhood – the suburbs.

I soar to the familiar house, but stop before I come too close. Jeb lives here, after all – what if he is watching? And sees me? I could easily ruin all I've recently obtained.

I make another one of those split-second decisions – the kind that 7 times out of 10 bite you in the butt later – and soar toward her window quickly.

I hover in front of the glass on the second story, creepily looking at her sleeping figure. Her hair is splayed across the pillow chaotically, and her sheets are twisted and wrapped into a tight cocoon, holding Max in the center. Her deep breathing can be seen even in this darkness, but the only sound that emanates from the room. I take a deep breath, and then I knock lightly three times against the window glass.

Max's head rises from the pillow groggily, and even though I cannot see her expression, I can easily tell she is probably confused.

I knock again, a little louder so she can identify the direction and proximity of the noise. She turns her head and squints toward the window.

I wave my hand, hoping to help this process move faster.

Her eyes widen, and I see her mouth the word "Fang." She then proceeds to try to remove herself from the bed.

I have to control myself to not smirk or start laughing at Max's struggle to extract herself from the cocoon of sheets.

Finally, she throws off the last obstructing sheet and leaps to the floor. She pads over to the window, undoes the latch, and opens the window. She looks at me for a moment, her crazy bed-hair blowing slightly from the breeze outside. Then, she backs away and looks at me, a signal for me to enter.

I angle myself up slightly and plant my feet onto the window ledge silently, grabbing onto the sides of the window. I fold in my wings and step into the dark room before turning around and closing the window.

When I turn back around to face Max, I find her closer to me.

"Fang?" she whispers out-loud, wonder in her eyes.

I give her a small smile. "I'm still here."

Then I find myself being hugged – or maybe I'm hugging her. Either way, we are in each other's' arms, holding the other tightly with a passion that can only come from reunions.

Without moving, I whisper into her ear, "I missed you."

She presses her cheek into my chest. "You scared me shitless, you know that?"

I finally step slightly back to look at her face. "Sorry," I say.

Then, I see the puffiness around her eyes, the dried streaks on her face. "What's wrong?"

I finger the tear stains on her face.

She looks down, her eyes showing sorrow before she can conceal it.

I use my finger to lift her chin, forcing her to look me in the eye. "What happened?"

She gulps, and then whispers out very softly, "My dad's gone – he left us."

I stiffen instinctively. Jeb is loose?

But she doesn't know he's evil. To Max, he is the father she has loved for seventeen years. So I relax my posture as quickly as I tightened it.

"Really?" I ask gently. "That's ironic… my dad's come back."

She looks at me. "What's happened while you were gone?"

I stroke her cheek. "What's happened to you while I was gone?"

She moves to the bed and sits down, patting the space next to her. I sit down, and then we both lie down, staring at her poster-covered ceiling displaying her favorite bands and pictures.

And we talk for a long time, together in this perfect and temporary peace.

* * *

**Yeah… sorry for the delay. But the chapter is here! My last week of school is next week, so that's exciting!**

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**18**_** by Steve Moakler.**

**R&R?**


	35. Chapter 35

**Well hiya! This writer's block has really bogged me down. As did two extreme storms and two days of battling my computer (which I… semi-won, I guess. I found a way around my problem). But I am back, with… well, an idea, at least. Several. Yay!**

**So, without any more pausing, Chapter 35! (Wow, never thought I'd get this far. It's fantastic!)**

**Disclaimer: I am not sixty plus, a MAN, or a popular (and semi-despised right now) thriller/Maximum Ride writer. So.**

* * *

My father has presented an interesting idea.

Fishing.

Angel, my father, and I – fishing.

Huh.

This feels so cliché.

The classic father-son bonding activity.

Fishing.

Fishing?

"Fishing?" I ask, more than a little perplexed about this suggestion.

"Fishing," my father answers.

"What's fishing?" Angel asks, her blue eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

"Well," my father says, squatting down to her level, "it's an activity. Something people do for fun. You take that fishing rod over there –"

My father points to the tree branch with fishing wire attached, a lure at the end.

"And you catch fish by attracting them with worms and such," he finishes.

"What do you do with the fishies?" Angel asks again.

"Well, you can either keep them and eat them later, or you can let them go," my father answers.

"I've never ate fish before," Angel says ungrammatically.

My father smiles. "Well, I'm pretty great at cooking up a good fish. I'll make you the best fish fry you'll ever eat in your life."

Angel smiles. "Yum!" she says.

I roll my eyes. I still don't get how catching a fish is any fun.

"Don't you roll your eyes, Fang. Fishing is a lot of fun. It's relaxing, if nothing else," my father says.

"Whatever."

My father ignores my last comment, instead grabbing is lone, homemade fishing rod, a bait box, and an old cap. He places the tan cap on his head and faces Angel and I.

"Ready, gang?" he asks dorkily.

* * *

_Two hours later_.

"Fishing is _boring_," Angel whines.

"Have some patience; they'll come," my father assures her.

"The most I've caught is a sunburn," I say, rolling my eyes. "What's so fun about fishing again?"

I wipe my forehead again, removing another heavy layer of sweat.

"It is scorching hot out here," I say.

"I told you to not wear black – it just absorbs heat," my father reprimands.

My anger flares, and I feel my glance subconsciously harden as I reply.

"It's not like I have anything else – most of my belongings were burned in a tragic house fire."

My father looks away, and I instantly feel badly. I hadn't meant to keep this bitterness toward my father.

There seems to be no solution for my forgiveness-bitterness conundrum.

"Sorry," I mutter, looking away. "I know you had to."

…_Did you?_

I shove my past-obsessed conscience away.

"Just take off your shirt, son – no one is going to come this way."

Gladly I follow his order, feeling the wind cool my sweaty back as the black fabric leaves it. I throw the shirt on the ground, feeling instantly better.

I let my wings release out of my back, enjoying the feel of the breeze on my primaries. The sun feels especially warm on my black feathers, but instead of unbearable, it feels… nice.

I sense my father looking at me.

No, he's not a pedophile.

…creeps.

Anyway, I'm sure the multitudes of scars on my torso are quite the sight-seeing attraction to those not accustomed to my lifestyle.

I look over at my father, and sure enough, he gaze is locked on the scars. Particularly, he seems to have spotted the large gash Mom gave me back in New York.

He finally moves his gaze up to my face, and for a moment he just opens and closes his mouth, trying to find the right words. Finally, he utters a sentence.

"You're really skinny."

I glance over at the shining pond surface.

"Yep," I respond.

Silence fills the air.

Then –

"How many calories are you supposed to intake – with the bird genes?"

I know he's avoiding the questions and comments he really wants to make – the ones about my scars and my past abuse.

But instead of calling him out on his obvious evasion, like I _really_ want to, I let it rest. I mean, he's trying to stay on good ground with me, mend this fragile bond between us. I might as well try to participate – be a team player.

So, I answer the question he asks.

"About 4,000 a day – but on average I was lucky to get a forth of that. We never had a ton of money for anything… like food. But Angel always got the portion she needed."

I would have starved completely so she could get what she _really_ needed to eat, but I had to be there for Angel.

Forever and always.

After searching my face for a few moments and finding nothing (thanks to my carefully constructed mask), he turns away and focuses back to his rod, which still hasn't moved.

Angel and I had both had turns holding this homemade contraption, waiting for "fish" to come and bite. But, both of us had eventually given into impatience and forked it off into our father's "experienced" hands.

Experienced or not, I am beginning to wonder if there even _are_ fish here.

"I'm going for a swim," I announce to my quiet company. Ironically enough, I've been the one who has talked the most on this whole trip, and you know that I am not the most talkative soul in the world.

My father only nods.

I turn to Angel, my black wings flapping behind me. "Wanna swim, Ange?"

She looks out at the pond's water, gazes back at our father with his unresponsive pole, then glances back to me.

She nods eagerly, her blonde curls bouncing.

I can't help but fully smile at her; she's too cute.

I don't know how this seven-year-old girl has managed to crack the code that is Fang, when almost everyone in the world has failed.

However, I guess no one has ever really tried.

I gladly hand over my heart to Angel.

She's my world.

I take a running start, still wearing my boxers and pants.

They need to be washed, anyway.

And right at the edge of the clearing, I leap, flapping my wings once to give me more height.

Twenty feet above the water, I dive, folding in my wings.

The impact is swift and slightly hard, but the immediate relief of the water is so satisfying, it's worth it.

I revel the feeling of being underwater for a few seconds. Then, I pump my arms down, rushing to the surface.

My heads breaks the surface and I breathe with a gasp. Water falls off my hair like a waterfall – not to be redundant.

The sun no longer feels like a fire – it's more of a warm blanket, lying on top of my skin.

I quietly laugh, this childlike happiness filling my body.

I eye the shore, seeing Angel still there.

I swim closer.

"Come on, Ange!" I call out.

She shakes her head hurriedly, a fear settling in her eyes.

"I don't know how to swim, Fang. I don't… I don't wanna…I'm scared," she answers, eying the water with new fear.

A deep sadness fills my system.

I've never taught her to swim.

Every child has this experience – it's almost a ritual, it's so common.

For me to have shoved this part of childhood beside… how could I?

"Here, Angel," I say. "I'll teach you."

I swim all the way to the shore and start walking up the inclined sandy slope until only my knees and below are under the water.

I hold out my hands, stretching my arms to a hesitant Angel.

She stares into my eyes for a few moments, searching for reassurance and a promise – my promise – to not let her drown.

There is no need to let down any mask – there never is one around Angel.

There never can be.

Finding whatever she needed, she inches into the water. I can tell the water still frightens her, but the cool waves hitting her legs are comforting and gentle, which encourage her.

When she reaches me, she is almost waist deep in the water. She holds onto my arms with a death grip, peering only at the water.

"You ready?" I ask her gently.

She tightly nods, a fierce determination in her eyes.

I give a small grin; she is definitely related to me. That strength and perseverance.

My little trooper.

Slowly, I edge her into deeper water. When my waist is submerged, half of her torso is in water. Her rib cage and higher stay above the cool water.

I wait, letting her adjust to the feel of water.

She looks up at me. "Okay."

I pull her out beyond where she can stand. Readjusting, I grab her middle.

"Now," I begin, "paddle your arms. Pull the water toward you."

She follows my instructions, starting off slowly, then gradually picking up a quick, steady pace as her confidence grows.

"Okay, Ange. Now, pump your legs – like you are running."

She complies, remaining horizontal as I hold her middle.

Gradually, I start to release my grip from her waist – so slowly that she doesn't pick up on the lack of grip. Eventually, I let go completely, and watch her start to move.

"Angel?" I ask, smiling.

"Huh?" she answers, not bothering to look at me. She keeps a concentrated expression on her face, which makes me laugh.

"Angel – you know you're swimming, right?"

"What –"

She looks at me, standing a few feet away, and looks at her arms.

"AH!" she exclaims.

She stops swimming instantly, frightened at my distance.

Within the second I am back by her side, holding onto her.

"Don't be scared, Ange," I say. "You were swimming, girly!"

Then, I can't help but smile as Angel's face lights up with recognition.

"I was swimming! I can swim!" she exclaims, a huge smile breaking across her face. Her eyes twinkle with happiness, sparkling a deep blue similar to the water. "I can SWIM!"

"Show me how it's done again, guppy," I say, still smiling.

She leaps out of my arms eagerly this time and starts paddling fiercely. She swims at a slow rate, but swimming none the less.

A warmth blossoms in my chest, and I realize that it's pride.

"Swimming, swimming, over the ocean blue…," Angel sings, paddling contentedly.

Suddenly, something hits my foot.

On instinct, I hastily reach toward my foot with bird-kid fast reflexes – which are pretty darn fast – and snatch whatever has attacked.

Only, it wasn't an attack, apparently.

How do I know?

I'm holding a fish in my hand.

I almost drop it once I recognize it, out of sheer shock. But I manage to keep a firm grip on its scaly, slick body as it flops around.

"Huh. Fishing's pretty easy," I mutter.

I glance over to my father to see him bug-eyed but laughing.

I smirk as I hold up the fish high.

"So how do you cook him?"

* * *

Apparently, even though my father is not the greatest cook (and that's comparing it to my special of Spaghetti-O rice), he is not a liar when he says he can make the greatest fish fry ever.

Yum.

I sit in the bedroom, patting my still content stomach.

After I'd accidentally snatched the first fish, I managed to procure six more. It seemed easy to me; I'd just dive under the water and see hundreds of them and snatch some.

But don't worry, environmentalist – we plan to go to different ponds often, as to not damage the ecosystem.

And for more variation (that's for the food lovers. Respect.).

Anyway – to say I'm full is incredible, since I could probably consume a Big Mac-Big Mac and still be hungry. So.

It's well after midnight, and I hear the deep breaths of Angel and my father, sound asleep.

However, as before, I cannot sleep. I don't understand why; it's just like my body will not settle down or relax.

Sighing softly, I roll out of bed silently, running a hand through my increasingly-shaggy hair in frustration. I pad out of the bedroom and through the open room, quietly opening and closing the door to the outside.

Once outside the house, I again feel this immediate sense of calm take over. I start walking through the corn stalks distractedly, my mind still churning on endless thoughts about nothing.

Finally, I decide that the only way I'll clear my head is to go flying. So, I release my wings out and take off into the starry sky.

I don't realize what I've done until I see the city lights below me.

I've subconsciously flown back to Max's house.

Deciding that I might as well visit her since I am here, I keep coasting until I reach the familiar street and see Max's red and crème house. I knock on her window with three sharp raps, and I see her raise her head groggily. It only takes three more raps for her to see me in the window and leap out of bed.

She opens the window and I fly inside. She shuts the window behind me.

"Hey you," she says, a smile on her face. "Can't sleep again?"

"Kinda," I admit. "But I enjoy visiting with you, too."

She smiles. "Glad to hear it. How was your day?"

"Went fishing," I reply.

"Fishing?"

"Fishing."

"That's… cool, I guess."

"No, it's really not. Unless you do it the Fang way."

"The Fang way?" Max asks, laughing. "What's that, grabbing it with your teeth?"

I scowl. "No… just with my hands."

"Impressive," she says, still smirking.

"Oh, shut up."

"I wasn't saying anything!" Max whisper-exclaims, feigning innocence.

"You were thinking. It was annoying."

I start to laugh, and then we are both laughing quietly in the darkness of her room.

We take our position on her bed, lying on our backs and staring at her ceiling. I take a hold of her hand and trap it in mine, feeling the warmth spread through my fingers and traveling up through my arm.

Max looks down out our hands, then back at my face. After that, her face breaks into a warm smile, and she stares back at the ceiling.

"Gazzy has learned the magic of the monkey bars, now – he flits around them like he is a chimpanzee or something. Which is a pain in the butt, because it's so hard to grab the kid from them when we have to leave. Oh, and I'm a little scared for his safety, too, I guess," Max explains, smirking at the end.

"Taught Ange how to swim today," I say.

"How'd it go?"

"Well. She's a doggie-paddle pro."

And we talk for another hour, then I fly home to Angel, where I find sleep comes easily.

* * *

And so began a routine that has continued for a while, now. My father, Angel, and I rise in the early morning. We eat whatever cereal I managed to grab from another town. The day continues with play or learning – by which I mean I teach Angel some of what I know.

Which may or may not consist of karate and kick-boxing.

Shhhh.

For dinner, I grab us some fish. My father has managed to procure a mini-fridge for drinks and fish storage. He makes his delicious fish fry and we eat up.

At night, I still suffer from insomnia. Every evening, I fly to town to visit Max. Sometimes it's for hours; sometimes it's for 30 minutes. But however long it is, I can always sleep when I return.

It's a simple, easy routine. Nothing varies, but nothing really needs to. It's a happy, almost boring existence.

However, boring is always better than exciting.

I would know.

So when the routine falters… when my life becomes exciting… I know something is wrong.

It's when life is a pattern that the follies are most easily noticed.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Naked**_** by Kimberly Caldwell.**

**Speaking of dedicated, hopefully I'll be able to pump out a new chapter soon! I've finally got this beginning part out of the way, and I'll be able to get back on track with my plot idea.**

**Pray for my dedication – and free time!**

**~Dancing On My Toes~**

**R&R? Por favor? Because you love me ( I hope)?**


	36. Chapter 36

**So, I'm such a hypocrite. I say, "Summer = more updates" but then I don't update for over a week. I knew I had some crunch time, though, so while I was volunteering for registration for a place, I started writing this chapter on paper. I know, I'm such a horrible volunteer, but they even **_**told**_** me to bring a book or something to do, so I'm just following orders. ;)**

**Anyway, I've written 13 pages before I am finally typing this out. Which roughly translates to 5-6 pages typed, right? So, even if I don't completely finish my chapter, I have enough to update part of it with sufficient content. Yay!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights go to James Patterson.**

* * *

I think I'm going crazy.

….

….

Hey! You, in the back – that was _not_ nice!

Anyway.

I keep seeing things – things that aren't really there.

No, I don't see dead people. I've already exhausted my zombie prank, so I don't think I can pull that one off.

It's the most random crap in the world. I mean, yeah, there is some sort of undercurrent connection, but it's really faint.

For example:

* * *

_My father, Angel, and I sit at the kitchen table, eating our routine dinner of fish fry and whatever greens we managed to scavenge up and boil. The steady "scratch, scratch" of plastic sporks on paper plates fills the air. As for conversation, there is none. In the boring consistency we are living in together, what is new to talk about?_

_Well, besides my nightly visits to Max._

_But, it's not like I'm going to bring _that_ up._

_I take another bite of fish fry, and it feels like heaven is sliding down my esophagus and into my stomach._

_So salty, and so, _**so**_ delicious._

_My arteries may attest, but bird kid logic ranks full stomach over future health concerns. _

_Long term goals never really exist when you don't know if you'll make it through tomorrow._

_More fish fry is consumed._

_More scrapes sound out as sporks meet plates._

_It's in the middle of this normalcy that I see it. _

_It's a seven inch spider, crawling across the middle of the table. Black, with a red stripe down the back._

_Dangerous? I don't know._

_Do you __**think**__ I've studied arachnology in my spare time?_

_That is a rhetorical question._

_Do I like spiders? Not particularly._

_Does Angel like spiders._

_Ha._

_Ha ha._

_HA HA HA HA HA HA HA_

_Heck to the __**NO**__. I swear, if I didn't know for a __**fact**__ that Angel didn't have wings, I would swear she was a mutant. She practically flies ten feet into the air upon the sight of any type of bug._

_I'm surprised she hasn't seen this humongous spider crawling._

_Guess it's good, for her. _

_Does my father like spiders?_

…_Does this even matter?_

_Another rhetorical question, for you slow ones in the back._

_The spider is going to be terminated._

_Get me my black leather jacket, a lot of guns, and fancy gadgetry._

_Excuse me while I laugh at my own joke._

_I've always wanted a leather jacket – it's one of those things I feel I could beast up. I just don't have the money - _

_Woah. Bunny Trail. Back to the point._

_This spider is going to be pwned._

_I quickly reach down and yank off my tennis shoe._

_I __**really**__ hope the shoe doesn't smell __**too **__bad._

_I push the chair back and swiftly stand up, eyes focused on the target._

"_Fang?" my father asks, a confused look in his eyes._

_Okay, he either __**a.)**__ Likes spiders and doesn't understand my primal urge to kill it or __**b.)**__ Hasn't seen the completely HUGE seven-inch spider clogging the table._

_Since either way I don't care, I ignore my father entirely._

_Oh, no. _

_OH, no._

_That spider is heading toward my heavenly fish fry._

_**Hell**__ no._

_At this moment, I whip down the shoe, my arm following a perfect, steady arc to the table._

_Let's recap this in slow-mo._

_Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-__**SPLAT**__!_

_Spider guts go flying; the bottom of my shoe is coated with them. The edge of the fish pan is hit by my shoe but remains unscarred by spider innards. The pan __**is**__ knocked askew, though, and some fish flies out._

_And smacks me dead on in the face._

_Quite hard, actually._

_And I thought fly fishing wouldn't be dangerous._

_Get it? Because I can fly, and the fish was flying at me, and fly fishing is actually a sport?_

…_Okay, never mind. Ignore me – I just got beaten up by a dead fish. I'm a bit flabbergasted._

_The shoe hitting the table made a huge __**boom!**__, and even now it resonates in the stillness._

_I look up from the table and gore-covered shoe to see the shocked and bamboozled faces of Angel and my father._

_There's a moment of silent reflection._

"_Spider's dead," I say bluntly, and then I sit down at the table and resume eating fish fry._

"_There was a SPIDER?" Angel shrieks, and in the blink of an eye, she is half-way across the room._

_Oh, jeez._

"_Not anymore. Sit," I say, beckoning her over with a wave of my hand._

_I've taken a few bites of fish fry before I feel my father's gaze on my head, a slight tingle pricking my temple. I raise my gaze to meet his, nothing showing on my face._

_Minus the fish stains._

"_What?" I ask through a mouthful of fish, genuinely confused, but it comes off sounding like, "What's up?"_

"_Fang," my father says slowly, a searching look in his eyes. _

"_That's my name," I say just as slowly, not sure where this is going. "Don't wear it out."_

"_Fang," my father starts again. "There was no spider."_

_I snort. _

"_You probably didn't see it before I decimated it," I say, smirking._

_My father looks troubled. "No, Fang. There was no spider. At all. Not then, not now."_

"_What do you mean?" I ask, concerned for my father's mental health. "Its guts are still all over the table –"_

_I cut myself off._

_On the table is a knocked-over fish pan, three plates, and a bowl of boiled grass._

_No dead spider – or spider guts._

_I look at the bottom of my shoe, searching for evidence._

_Nothing._

_All evidence of spider has just disappeared – poof, into thin air._

"_I…" I try to say something, __**anything**__, to defend myself. _

_But there's nothing to say._

_I saw a spider._

_I killed a spider._

_But I have no proof of my spider murder._

_Although this is a best-case scenario for a serial killer, this is not looking so good for Fang._

_The imaginary spider killer._

_I attacked something that didn't exist._

_What's going on?_

_How many other things have I seen or reacted to that didn't exist?_

"_I'm going for a fly," I say, shoving the panic deep inside so no one can see it._

_Including me._

_But if you look close enough, you can probably tell the how tense my stride is and notice how quickly I escape as worry seeps through the cracks in my emotional barrier._

_I'm not crazy._

…_am I?_

* * *

It has only escalated from that. I've never seen anything pleasant – that seems to be the only connecting link between my hallucinations. Always, the images are dark, frightening, heck even lugubrious at times.

I finally comprehended that should stop reacting to the images I see. I mean, I know they aren't real.

Sometimes it is difficult, though. Like, when I am trying to sleep and I see (and _feel_) hundreds of snakes slithering and climbing up all my limbs.

You can bet I don't sleep too soundly.

Or at all.

The worst episode yet was yesterday.

It was so freaking terrifying.

I won't give you specifics to what I'm mentally calling "The Incident," but I'll tell you it involved the Nyan cat, the song "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and Fang in his undies.

*shudders*

_That's _a psychological thriller.

For everyone who wants to tell me this is just some large-ass nightmare, I'll respond that my whole _life_ has been a large-ass nightmare. So, unless you are telling me that I've been in a coma this whole time, this crap is definitely real.

Well, not what I've been seeing. Just the fact that I am awake and seeing stuff.

Yeah.

Seeing things is only half of it.

I am constantly getting angry.

Before you shout hormones, I'll tell you that I keep getting fist-inducing furious over nothing.

At.

All.

No, seriously.

Don't give me that face, person in the back! I will literally kick you out of this… narration… thing…

Oh, shoot.

I am so sorry.

See what I mean?

Here, let's flashback before I hit one of you readers with a crowbar for sneezing or something.

* * *

_My father, Angel and I sit at the kitchen table, eating out routine dinner of fish fry and whatever greens we manage to scavenge up and boil –_

* * *

Woah. Déjà vu

Why do all my flashbacks take place at the dinner table?

_Grumble grumble grumble_

*looks at stomach*

Ugh! Stupid stomach! Stupid hunger! _Leave me the hell alone!_

…

…..

…

I'm just going to hit myself with the crowbar now. Be right back.

* * *

_We are at the table. Eating fish fry. As always._

_Dinner is normal. We eat in silence, only muttering "pass the grass" now and then._

_Not __**that**__ kind of grass._

_**Legitimate **__grass. That grows out of the ground in short, green spikes and has to be mowed __**a ton**__ in the summer._

_Anyway._

_Angel finishes first. She picks up her plate, her spork precariously placed on the edge of it._

_She is halfway to the trash pile (yeah, we __** are**__ cool like that) when it happens._

_The spork falls off the plate and hits the dirt floor._

_Clink!_

_It rebounds slightly before coming to a rest on the dirt floor._

"_Oops!" Angel says, bending down to pick it up._

_My eyes are locked on Angel._

_When she stands up, she looks at me and gives a shy grin – a grin I am used to seeing and melting on the inside from._

_But._

_Suddenly, the grin isn't so shy and innocent._

_It's conniving._

_And suspicious._

_And devious._

_She no longer has a spork in her hand, either._

_It's a knife._

_A long, metal, __**sharp**__ knife._

"_Fang," she mocks, her grin growing wicked._

_The traitor – she's going to kill me._

_After all I've done – she's switched sides._

_I abruptly stand up and grab my own spork… well, it's a knife, now, too._

"_I didn't _**mean**_ to drop the spork," she coos in a sinister manner. "It was an _**accident**_."_

"_Lying brat!" I exclaim, my eyes narrowing dangerously. "You've been planning this!"_

_My wildfire anger surfaces beneath the dead calm mask I set onto my face._

"_Planning _**what**_?" Angel tries to say innocently, twirling her hair around her finger. Her face gives her away, though – devious, with a wicked grin._

"_You're trying to kill me!" I yell, furious. "After all I've done for you!"_

"_Fang –" my father tries to interrupt, standing up._

"_Don't!" I shout at him._

"_Fang," Angel says, a worried look crossing her face suddenly. She begins to back away, as if scared._

_I almost think that I was wrong, but I see that knife in her hand. I saw the devious look on her face._

_She is acting._

"_Don't you try to act innocent! I see who you __**really**__ are now, you ungrateful demon!" I scream maliciously._

_Angel's eyes water with tears, her face fully frightened._

"_Fang, __**stop**__ this – " my father tries to intervene, putting a hand on my shoulder._

_I roughly shove it off and push him away, hearing him fall into the chairs heavily._

_I focus back on Angel._

"_I got _**wings**_ for you!" I shout, whipping out my large black wings._

"_**Enough**__, Fang –" my father yells from the chairs._

"_I was beaten up for __**seven years**__ for you!" I exclaim, tension building in my arms are fury runs rapidly._

_Tears run down Angel's face. "I'm s-sorry –" she hiccups out._

"_Liar!" I yell, raising my arm to swing –_

_A body slams into mine, shoving me sideways. My head connects with the wall roughly, causing me to see stars as I fall to the floor, dazed._

"_Fang, STOP THIS. ENOUGH!" my father roars at me, furious. "God damn it, Fang, snap the hell out of it! Look at what you were doing!'_

_I look up under my bangs to the corner._

_Angel is curled up in the corner, a dirty __**spork **__lying a few feet away. Heavy sobs emanate from her body as fat tears race down her face._

_Oh, God._

Oh, GOD.

_I screamed at Angel. For dropping a spork_.

_I almost _**hit**_ her for dropping a spork._

_I _**wanted**_ to._

_**OH, GOD**__._

_I put a hand over my mouth and bite the inside skin, a habit I used to do when I was scared. Bite my hand to focus on the pain instead of whatever I was feeling._

_One of the reasons my parents kept calling me "Fang."_

_Shame. Bucket loads of it swarm my body, filling every pore, every cell._

_My mother's face grins wickedly in my head._

"My boy, just like me_."_

"_Just like me."_

_I'm so furious and nervous and frightened… of myself._

_I'm losing it. I'm losing. I'm becoming __**her**__._

_I bite my hand harder, but it doesn't distract from the guilt. I taste the first signs of blood as my teeth break skin._

"_At first I thought you were just tense from lack of action or something. I thought that if I just let it leave your system, you'd settle down eventually. But now, NOW I know that isn't it," my father scolds, glaring holes through me._

_For the first time, I shrink at the sight of a glare._

_I welcome it. I want the world to fall on me and crush my body._

_I deserve it. This pain._

_I'd experience the agony of getting wings again. I'd have my mother torture me for seven more years to make up for what I did in two minutes._

_What I almost did._

_I start shaking uncontrollably, curled in a tight ball, still biting my hand. I feel the wetness fall down my face before I realize that I am crying._

"_I'm so sorry, Ange. God, I'm so sorry –" I try to cry out, to apologize to Angel. My Angel._

_My father interrupts._

"_I suggest you leave for a while. Fly, clear your head. Before something worse happens," my father lectures, still glaring at me._

_I stand up, shaking. I look at Angel, trying to project to her how sorry I am._

"_GO!" my father shouts. "Don't return until you settle this problem, Nicholas!"_

_I run past him and leap into the sky in three seconds, pouring on the speed._

* * *

So here I am, wandering around my hometown, trying to sort my chaotic thoughts and calm down. I have to think rationally to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

I can't keep being this. This craziness.

I'm dangerous.

I'm my mother.

I stroll down a city sidewalk, my mind clouded.

This isn't natural. Something is tampering with my mind. Something that has just appeared since my house burned down. Something that's happened after I settled down in the corn field.

Bug bite? Nah.

Maybe my mother planted something in my head. Maybe it's been deactivated until she had the opportune moment. Maybe she's controlling my mind.

…maybe.

Some sort of drug? Surely I'd have noticed. For this kind of reaction, I'd have to feel addicted.

…wouldn't I?

The sidewalk turns ninety degrees around the corner of a building. I follow its concrete path, rotating around the wall.

And stop.

_Oh, shit_.

* * *

**This evil cliffhanger and chapter are dedicated to **_**Had Enough**_** by Breaking Benjamin.**

**I have some more, but it's late, and I'm tired, and I'll update again soon, hopefully.**

**Woah. 11 pages. That's crazy.**

**I wrote 5 pages on killing a spider. That's kind of funny.**

**Sorry to leave it here. Tell me your thoughts, your speculations.**

**R&R?**


	37. Chapter 37

**Another update? **

***People cheer***

…**I hope.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights go to JP.**

* * *

_Previously on ShadowDiving:_

_Oh shit.  
_

Ahead, on a bench, is a woman with blonde hair and brown, almost black eyes. Her skin is pale. Her hair is thinning as though tugged at often, and her eyes seem dead. Her posture is slouched, as if exhaustion has overcome her. She rubs a bony hand across her face, the shadow of a thin wedding ring hitting her ring finger under the lamppost light.

It's difficult to recognize her without an evil smile and a knife, but I manage to anyway.

After all, I've lived with that face for seventeen years.

As I soon as I recognize my mom's face, I duck behind the building corner, breathing heavily from shock.

She could have seen me.

I could have been captured.

But… curiosity killed the bird kid.

I peer back over the edge, just looking at this new version of Mom.

I've never seen her like this – exhausted and defeated. Her clothes are dirty and her hair is down. Usually, her hair is in a clean, tight bun, accompanied by a nice, white lab coat.

Instead, she is wearing a faded, torn, red hoodie and some old, frayed blue jeans, mud-soaked sneakers covering her feet.

In the hand not covering her face is a bottle of pills.

Pills?

I've seen my mother do all sorts of drugs – powders, liquid medicines, shots –

But never pills.

She looks at the yellow bottle with the white cap, no prescription on the outside. She searches it for something. Directions? I don't know.

I am still peering from around the building's edge, hoping she doesn't spot me and capture my messed-up self again.

However, she doesn't look up. She continues to gaze at the bottle, fury crossing her face.

Maybe she has seen me, after all. I seem to always cause her fury.

I am shocked out of my thoughts, though, as my mother sharply throws her arm down.

The bottle of pills collides harshly with the ground, causing the top to fly off and pills to spill out – small, white pills.

"I _hate_ you!" Mom screams at the pills. "I _HATE_ YOU!"

Suddenly, Mom does the unexpected.

She…

My mom is…crying.

She's sobbing.

…

I've seen my mother smile. I've seen her face turn into a scowl. I've seen her bloodthirsty and angry. I've seen her scheming. I've seen her whistling and singing to the radio while cooking mashed potatoes.

…but I've never seen my mother cry.

It's difficult to watch my mother break down so openly. Something stirs inside of me, something foreign and old.

I want… I actually want to _comfort_ her.

I tighten my grip on the brick corner, holding my compulsive body back.

I can't. She doesn't love me. I don't love her. She'll just capture me.

This… this must be bait or something.

She knows I'm here.

I need to run.

…

I haven't moved yet.

Move, feet!

…

I'm stuck, watching this spectacle.

"_I'm just waiting for her to end it,_" I reason. "_I'm waiting to see what comes next, what the next part of the plan is_."

My eyes dart away from my crying mother as someone new enters the scene. A gangly teenager, who is a little scruffy around the edges. He looks exhausted and skinny – underfed. Homeless? His clothes are torn and dirty. His hair is unkempt, but it can be discerned that it is a light brown.

He sits down next to Mom.

I want to warn him, but I'll only get myself captured.

Besides, my mother only seems to hate me.

"_I should go,_" I tell myself –

What?

No. No way.

No freaking way.

The teenager's face has turned toward me, a scar running along his sharp jaw.

But it's the blue eyes that stand out – wide, tired, and young.

"Ari," I whisper.

He shouldn't be this old. He shouldn't have grown up so much already.

"_He shouldn't be an Eraser, either_," my conscience replies.

Ari starts talking to my mother.

"Mrs. Westonville," Ari begins, "you know you have to take them."

He begins to scoop up the pills scattered on the sidewalk.

My mom swiftly sits up and glares at Ari.

"No. _No_. I am _done_."

She slaps his hand roughly, causing him to spill the pills again.

"You have to, Mrs. Westonville –"

"_DO NOT_ call me anything that has the bastard's name in it, Ari."

Silence.

Ari picks up one pill. "Please, Miss… you have to take them. Or you and I both get punished."

More tears run down my mother's face. Even as she cries, though, her glare is enough to make Ari shrink back against the bench.

She glares at him for a few moments, then her glare fades away, true sorrow overcoming her face.

"I can't, Ari… these pills rob my life away from me. I've lost everything. I can't control what I do. I don't see reality. I overreact to everything. These pills have destroyed the past seven years of my life!" my mom exclaims, burying her head in her hands.

Ari stares for a second, then awkwardly tries to rub her back in a sad attempt at comfort.

"I never even realized…I never realized seven years of my life were robbed from my hands without my consent – because I believed that bastard. I took those damn pills almost religiously. 'You'll be a better mother, Lily.' 'You'll get to keep being a mother, Lily.' 'That cancer will just leave if you take these experimental pills, Lily.' 'Just keep taking them, Lily.' I can't believe I listened to that bastard!"

My mom stomps her foot on some of the pills, pulverizing them into powder.

My mom…my mom had cancer?

I feel like I'm not in my body. I'm outside it, feeling these feelings of shock and sadness without actually confronting them. Like there is some sort of cloudy barrier preventing me from actually comprehending all I'm hearing.

Ari watches my mother, sadness in his eyes. "If you have cancer, you _have_ to take these pills –"

"No, I _don't_, damn it! Don't you see? I don't have cancer!" she yells, a ferocious anger in her eyes.

"Because you took the pills –"

"NO! I never _had_ cancer!"

Silence falls over them. Mom takes the chance to crush another pill with her foot, pulverizing it to powder.

Ari watches her crush it, wincing as another pill is wasted.

"Why would you take the pills if you didn't…" Ari trails off, not knowing the answer.

My mother looks at him as if he is stupid, but her glare falters at his innocent expression.

"I keep forgetting you are only ten," she says, fingering the edge of her frayed sweatshirt sleeve. She looks away to the distance before resuming talking.

"I've been off these pills for weeks, now. Whoever burned down my house also inadvertently destroyed my pill stash. I didn't have any other ways to obtain them, so I just didn't take them."

Mom looks at her dirty shoes.

"At first, I was panicked about it. I thought I had to take them. Thought I would die without them. And the first week was torture – I know now it was because I was addicted to them. I _craved_ them. But after the first week, I noticed that I wasn't seeing things. Snakes weren't eating me as I walked down the streets. People didn't seem to be out to get me. My son –"

I freeze, as does my mother.

She gulps heavily, a fresh tear trailing down her pale cheek.

"… my son didn't seem to evil anymore. I _missed_ him. I _miss_ him, Ari."

She wipes the single tear away, but three more fall in its place.

It's just an act.

It's just an act.

_It's just an act_, _Fang_.

"God damn it! These pills have ripped _EVERYTHING _from me! I've lost my son – I've lost him for the past seven years! Do you _know_ how much it _hurts_ now? I love him, Ari – I didn't mean to harm him! I didn't want to! I – I –"

A loud, audible intake of breath is heard as she gasps. A small sob escapes.

My mother puts her hand over her mouth and bites the inside of her palm.

Like me.

Ari hugs her shoulders awkwardly, not sure what to do but knowing he has to do something.

"Please, Miss – we'll both be punished if you don't take them –"

"No, Ari, only I'll be in trouble. You'll only be in trouble if your father doesn't resume taking his prescription… not that he has a choice, considering they captured him after they found out. They'll just kill me," Mom whispers out.

Mom and I take a deep breath together.

"It doesn't matter. I don't have anything to lose. I've lost my son, my baby Angel – I lost her before she was even born. That bastard has ruined my life, and now my babies are gone, and I don't know where they are at all!"

My mother wails, and my heart seems to freeze on the spot.

My feet take a step forward.

And before they can make a fatal mistake, I force myself to flee in the opposite direction, launching into the night sky once I'm far enough away.

* * *

I hover in front of Max's window, looking in without comprehending what I'm seeing.

I can't sort the hurricane of emotions and thoughts storming inside of me. I'm feeling so many things that I almost feel empty and detached. As if everything around me doesn't make any sense.

I knock on the window.

And then I look at my hand, momentarily not understanding the reason for the action I just did.

Max opens the window, a smile on her face.

I search for a smile to plaster on my face, but it's as if my neurons aren't functioning. I can't force anything onto my face.

I leap in, not looking at Max.

Not really looking at anything.

I notice the smile fall off Max's face, a different look covering it.

Concern?

What exactly _is_ concern? I'm having trouble connecting the word with the emotion, with memories.

"Fang," Max's voice sounds out, and I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I look at it, confused at the simple action.

"Hello," I say.

No emphasis.

No emotion.

Nothing.

A robot could have had more conviction than me.

"Fang – you're scaring me. What's wrong?"

Something comes to the front of my brain, consumes my thought process for a second before disappearing.

_Pills_.

I turn to Max.

"Did you notice your dad take any pills? Before he left?" I ask, more focused but still hazy.

She studies me, but I manage to pick up the tinge of sadness in her eyes at the mention of her father.

"Yeah – why?"

"I need to see them."

More studying.

More blank expressions.

It's as if she understands the urgency, my confliction. She nods, no questions asked, and takes my hand. Gripping it tightly, she guides me downstairs and to the kitchen.

I look at the hand, marveling at the warmth that shoots up my arm and into my chest.

A synapse goes off.

Concern is Max.

Concern is Angel.

Concern is love.

What is love?

I'm left baffled again.

I am aroused from my daydream by Max setting three bottles in front of me.

I walk over to the bottles, examining the labels.

One is prescription aspirin – for arthritis.

Another is a vitamin – C, I believe.

The third has no label. Just directions:

_Take once a day_, _with food_.

I open the bottle.

Inside are many, many small white pills.

Like Mom's.

I pick one up, examining it. I bring it closer to my face –

And it hits me.

* * *

_I hear the frying pan snap, sizzle, and pop as oil boils. The aroma is delicious, and I'm practically watering at the mouth._

"_When will this be eatable? I'm starving," I say, gazing lovingly at the contents of the pan._

_I hear Angel scamper beside me, nodding eagerly. "My tummy's been growling for hours!"_

"_Just a moment. I know you don't like salty foods, Angel, but Fang, do you want extra salt on yours? I personally love mine super salty."_

_I nod. "Sure."_

_I'm given a smile, and I watch as my father shakes the salt shaker over the fish fry, a new, delicious aroma developing as the heavy white flakes hit the pan –_

* * *

Oh. My. God.

The visions. The anger. The suddenness of it all.

Oh, God, it makes sense.

I drop the pill, hearing it clink against the floor, and I back away quickly, as if the pill is poisonous.

It might as well be.

Oh, _God_.

"Fang!" Max whisper-shouts, running to me and gripping my upper arms tightly.

As if I'll keel over.

As lightheaded as I'm feeling now, I might just.

I'm sure my eyes are the size of dinner plates. My jaw is slack with shock, and judging by Max's expression, I bet I've paled several shades.

"Fang, what's wrong? Talk to me!" Max orders, shaking me slightly.

"Oh, God, I've had it wrong. I've had it _all_ wrong," I mutter, sounding mental.

"_What_ have you had all wrong? Tell me what the hell is going on!"

"I never suspected – he was too good –"

"Who?"

"All this time, and I've distorted it so much –"

"What?"

"God, can I _never_ have something _normal_ happen –"

"FANG!"

_Wham!_

I feel my head whip to the side from impact. I feel my cheek blossoming with a heavy bruise from Max's punch.

I put a hand to my cheek and face her, eyes wide and eyebrow cocked.

Max looks _pissed_.

"I had to smack you out of your crazy! Can you tell me what the God damn hell is going on _before_ I go crazy too?" Max hisses, hands on her hips, eyes alight with annoyance.

Jeez, she looks cute angry.

Wait – focus, Fang!

I give a small laugh of disbelief.

One: I can't believe Max punched me.

… actually, I can.

Two:

"I just realized that I have totally messed up on my perspective on who was good and who was evil," I say, feeling refreshing normal and focused.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" Max whisper-snarls.

Oh, whisper-snarls – what a delicate art form.

I take a deep breath.

"It means that my mother was good all along. It's my father who is truly evil –"

I stop.

Oh, no.

"Oh, God – Angel," I breathe out, panic seeping in. "Shit shit shit –"

I start to run towards the door when a hand holds me back.

I whip around and see Max gripping my arm, a determined look on her face.

"I don't completely understand, but I'm tired of being on the sidelines. I'm coming with and helping you sort out this mumbo-jumbo crap for once. Kapeesh?"

I open my mouth to protest, but then it hits me.

I give a wicked smile.

"Come here, trouble," I say, whipping her into my arms.

"Hey –" she starts, but she shuts up as I sprint out of the house and whip into the air.

"I'll explain on the way," I say, speeding through the sky. "But we have to get to Angel as soon as possible."

"Why'd you take me, anyway?" Max asks, looking at me.

I stare at the way the moonlight hits her face for a moment, then answer her with a grin.

"It was faster to just agree than to argue with you."

_Smack!_

Max slaps my arm, and though I am freaking out on the inside, I can't help but laugh.

"Jerk," she mutters.

* * *

I manage to shorten down my travel time from half an hour to twenty minutes (and that's with heavy passenger in tow – don't tell Max that. The heavy bit, I mean). Coming to a rather rough stop, I drop Max to her feet and sprint inside, sweat pouring down my face (that's attractive, I know).

I burst into the door.

I notice the stillness, first.

I look to the ground and spot my father's sleeping bag. Inside of it is a bundle, turned on its side.

That traitorous jerk –

Just as I flip the covers back, I stop my oncoming fist.

I would have hit dirt.

Why?

Because my father isn't there.

A bundle of clothes is.

Shit.

I sprint to Angel and I's room, noticing Max enter the house finally.

I slam the straw door down, kicking it off its feeble hinges.

He didn't even try for her.

No bundle lies in her bed.

No fake set-up.

Just an empty, untouched hammock.

However, there is a single note there.

Written on the back of my FREEDOM bird sketch.

_Angel and I are leaving for a safer location until you figure things out. We'll come back in a few days._

_Love,_

_Dad_

"No!" I scream, tearing the letter to shreds.

Max runs into the room.

I fall onto the dirt floor, the torn letter bits around me and in my shaking fingers.

"_No_," I breathe out, shaking. "_Not again_."

"Fang," Max whispers out, her eyes wide with concern.

"She's gone, Max," I whisper out, my voice pathetically weak. "He took her."

Max doesn't hesitate in her next action.

In a second I find myself surrounded by strong arms. A hand pushes my head into a hard, comforting shoulder, its fingers stroking the back of my head.

I don't break down. I just let it happen, reveling in the comfort that someone is still there. Someone still cares.

_Love_.

The synapse connects and I understand.

Love is Max.

Love is Angel.

I lift my head from Max's shoulder and stare into her eyes, only a few centimeters away from mine. Chocolaty brown swirls beautifully in front of me, and I find myself short of breath.

Before I lose my courage, I bring my hands to either side of her face and kiss her fiercely.

I'm sure I'm too rough and too strong, but it only lasts a few moments before we both need air, both out cheeks flushed.

Max gazes at me, a light in her eyes.

"We'll get Angel back, Fang," she says strongly.

I look into her eyes, then gaze into the distance.

"We have to, Max. We have to."

* * *

**And… THAT'S THE END OF CHAPTER 37!**

**Wooo!**

**I feel so happy to have this written!**

**Funny note of the chapter: In italics, the line **_**'Take once a day, with food' **_**that's on the pill bottle almost was published as **_**"Take once a day, with foot**_**."**

**This chapter is dedicated to the beautiful song … well, I don't know the title, but on Youtube, it's called **_**Evanescence – Is this the End?**_** by Evanescence.**

**Tell me your thoughts, your feelings.**

**R&R?**


	38. Chapter 38

**So, I totally said one week, and it turned into two without an update. My bad. **

**On the plus side, I have the next chapter after this planned out, just not written (which I recently discovered is half the battle).**

**Just because I am curious, if you read this beginning author note, in a review (if you review), include the word **_**corndog **_**in there somewhere. Just curious. **

**Also, I just read a very inspirational book. It's called **_**365 Thank Yous**_**, and it's by John Kralik. Check it out and be amazed at this true story.**

**Anyway, it is totally time for this story!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights go to the masterful James Patterson.**

* * *

"Why are we here?" Max asks, confused.

Currently, we are walking up to a small white house with shrubbery surrounding a small front porch. The roof is missing a few shingles and the grass is a little brown, but overall, the house is picturesque. The mailbox reads _Marti_, the _n_ of _Martin_ having faded.

"Who are the Martis?" Max asks, becoming more impatient by the second. I haven't fully disclosed the total details of my plan to her yet, since they aren't too finite and depend on the participation of some key persons.

Starting here.

"I don't know who the Martis are, " I say, smirking, "but the _Martins_ have a son named Iggy, who has been and continues to be a very reliable friend of mine."

"Iggy Martin? _The_ Iggy Martin? The Iggy that blew up Mrs. Krowski's entire bagpipe album collection his senior year of high school but never got in trouble?" Max questions, raising her eyebrows incredulously.

"Yep," I answer monosyllabically.

"Well… why are we here?"

"We're going to need his help." _Duh_.

"What is he going to do? Set another collection of bad music on fire? My cousin has a Miley Cyrus album I'll willingly sacrifice."

I roll my eyes.

"No," I begin, "His secret passion is food. You've never eaten well until you eat an Iggy meal. Combined with my secret fetish for fettuccini, we'll just cater our way to victory."

"A fetish for fettuccini? Yeah right. The only talent you have with food is the ability to consume massive quantities of food in a single sitting," Max retorts snarkily, placing her hands on her hips.

"No… well, yes, but my early comment was sarcastic, idiot," I reply, giving her a look. "However, I do play a mean harmonica."

Max stares at me.

And stares.

And stares.

"Great," she mutters, "I've joined forces with Lunatic Boy and his side-kick Muffin Man."

I hip a lip twitch in response. "Welcome to the Club, Lieutenant Sarcasm."

Max laughs, and I let my face relax and grin before I grow serious.

"Look, Iggy is a genius at pyrotechnics – not to mention he can pick a lock in ten seconds easily. He grew up having to deal with bullying from a pretty shady crowd, so he knows down-n-dirty street fighting – something worthwhile when we have to fight cronies. He's very loyal and valuable, and he's helped me through seven years of my mother abusing me. I trust him extremely," I spill.

Max looks at me in wonder. "That was a lot of words for you, Fang."

I roll my eyes. "Don't expect it often."

Max's face takes on a concentrated look as a thought crosses her mind. Then, she says, "Iggy is the boy that set your bones when you broke your legs, isn't he? He told my mom he was going pre-med."

I nod. "Yep."

Then, a thought crossed _my_ mind.

You! In the back!

I _**will**_ kick you out if you keep commenting on my mental capacity!

…Anyway.

"Iggy's never seen my wings," I mutter to myself, surprised.

"_What_?" Max exclaims incredulously.

"Iggy doesn't know," I repeat louder. "About the wings. I'll have to show him."

"I heard you the first time. How does he _not_ know?"

I turn to face Max. "You weren't supposed to know, either. It was an irrational impulse influenced by the strength of hospital pain killers."

As soon as I say it, I see a sliver of hurt enter Max's eyes, and I realize I should have left that bit out.

"So this is all a mistake?" Max questions, trying to sound strong, but her voice is a notch too quiet to pull it off completely. "I wasn't supposed to end up wound up in your life like this?"

I mentally groan, looking up to the sky for answers. "Max, stop taking everything I say so personally."

"Stop making unintentionally insulting remarks -"

"It was a mistake," I interrupt, "but I never said I regretted it."

I look at my shoes.

"I don't, by the way. I'm glad." I say quietly, feeling uncomfortable about speaking such an emotional thing.

Silence follows the remark, and I awkwardly shift my weight, sticking my hands into my pockets.

God, why'd I say that? She's all closed up, now –

Something bumps my shoulder.

"Hey," Max says, causing me to look up. "Thanks."

I give her a half-smile, but my expression slips quickly back to an impassive stare as I realize we are at Iggy's house.

We walk up the steps and stand in front of Iggy's door. I raise my hand to ring the doorbell.

Here goes nothing.

_Ding dong!_

…

Well, that's what should have sounded out.

Instead…

_I'm, too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts._

Oh, _jeez_.

"Bet his parents don't know 'bout that yet," I speculate, trying to stifle a chuckle.

"He still lives with his parents?" Max asks.

"You still live with _your_ parents," I retort.

"Touché," Max responds.

"Don't judge too quickly with Iggy. He's very –"

The door opens.

…to a half-naked Iggy.

Oh, _good Lord_.

I rub my temples, feeling the phantom fingers of a migraine emerge as I realize this meeting is going to be interesting. "What the hell?" I mutter.

"Well," Iggy begins, and I know instantly this is going to be bad, "I had just exited the shower when I heard the doorbell call out to my sexiness. Not wanting to disappoint such eager company, I covered up and answered. And here I am!"

His eager, smiling face falls a bit as he assesses us. "However, you two are not young, available, hot women seeking my company. No offense," he says, looking at Max.

She rolls her eyes, and I'm tempted to keep a tally of how many eye rolls Iggy can extract from us in a few meager minutes.

"Iggy, you didn't come out of the shower," I respond, rolling my eyes.

Count: 2

I continue. "One, your hair isn't wet. Two, you have a fetish about always wearing trousers whenever you interact. I can see your shirt behind the door, and I know you are wearing shorts under the towel. Drop the façade and let us in. It's important."

Iggy scowls, but drops the towel, revealing his camo shorts.

"You always ruin everything," Iggy whines, grabbing his My Chemical Romance shirt from behind the door.

"You have a _clothing_ fetish?" Max questions, laughing.

Great.

I give her a look. _This is what I meant about judging_.

Iggy's scowl deepens. "You know how some people have nightmares about being in front of crowds in their underpants? Yeah – that was my middle school experience."

Max snorts audibly. "What a dork."

Iggy's nostrils flare and I start to get uneasy. Iggy's temper closely resembles a stick of dynamite; the more you press on the trigger, the closer you get to a very loud and messy explosion that a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser won't fix.

Iggy turns to me. "And she's here _why_?"

I give Max another look.

_Shut your trap_.

I pause, then add on.

_Please_.

Max glares at me while simultaneously raising her eyebrow.

_What trap?_

I narrow my eyes.

_Don't screw this up – we need him_.

Max glares steadily at me for a moment, then looks up at the ceiling and puts her hands on her hips. Her shoulders relax, and she lets out a sigh.

_Whatever_.

"Not that I don't completely and utterly enjoy you guys's silent convo – that _doesn't _involve me, BTW – but is there a reason you are here? Or did you just want to ring my doorbell and mock me for kicks and giggles?" Iggy asks, annoyed, but there is genuine curiosity behind the anger.

I turn to face him, completely serious.

Wait – it already _was _serious.

Let's rephrase.

I stare Iggy down, looking into his eyes to make sure he was fully focused.

…Eh, I don't like it. I can't phrase it right, but whatever. You get the point.

"Iggy, I need your help," I begin.

Max looks on somberly.

Iggy is focused.

This is a good sign.

"An – "

"Fang has discovered he is turning into the blue fish from _Finding Nemo_ and wants you to build him a life-sized fish tank," Max interrupts.

Iggy stares at Max.

I stare at Max.

Iggy stares at me.

I glare at Max.

Must… not…_**throttle**_…

I feel my left eye twitch, a vein throbbing.

Iggy's eyes widen at the twitch, but then he bursts into laughter, clutching his sides.

"Ahaha! I've never been able to make him twitch like that!" Iggy chokes out, cackling like a little kid. "How do you do it?"

"Oh, I've made his eye twitch very often. It's a gift," Max says, giving a smirk.

I roll my eyes.

Count: 3

"That's magical! You, Max, are welcome here any time – just for that."

"Look, really – " I try to start again.

"Can I see your gills, Aqua-Fang?" Iggy spits out chortling.

My eye twitches again without my permission.

"Your… face!" Max says, breaking into heavy laughter.

"Will you shut it?" I snap. "Iggy, listen –"

"Iggy, you better measure him for his tank – don't want it to be too small!" Max exclaims.

"This is serious –"

"I'm sure – turning blue doesn't happen every day!" Iggy exclaims.

I groan.

"You okay? Your health at the moment seems a bit… fishy!" Iggy shouts, slapping his thighs at the bad joke.

My eye twitches _yet again_. Stupid bodily impulses.

I close my eyes for a moment.

When I open them, however, red fills my vision, and I see Iggy and Max with knives in their heads, bleeding heavily.

And I _desire_ it.

As soon as the fantasy floats in, I shove it away. It's just the remaining drug in my system. The thought feels foreign, trying appeal to my anger, but I ignore it.

_No._

I have to get Iggy's attention. My temper is small, contrary to popular belief. I just don't show it easily. I'm stressed – majorly – about Angel's safety. I have no idea what my father could do to Angel.

And that is the most frightening thing in the world – the unknown.

It's time to get this chaotic group focused – if only so my temper doesn't snap like a Kit Kat and try to murder Iggy – and at this point, the only option left is to pull out the big guns.

Or, rather, the big wings.

"I think I've got goldfish somewhere. Need some company?" Iggy snickers, his face turning red from oxygen deprivation. "I'll go grab one and you can see if you –"

Iggy stops, eyes wide, as I whip out my wings.

I stand just in front of him, wings unfolded completely to their fourteen foot glory. The black feathers gleam dully under the fluorescent light bulbs, but they seem to reflect fully in Iggy's wide, blue, shocked eyes.

"Wah…," Iggy stammers, flabbergasted.

"I'm not going fishy, Iggy, nor am I turning into a deer, platypus, or tiger. However, I have wings – I've _**had**_ wings, for several years," I say calmly, gauging Iggy's reaction.

To make sure he doesn't faint, have a heart attack, or throw the nearest lamp at me.

Ya know.

Iggy remains motionless, bug-eyed and wide-mouthed.

Max looks at me, saying with a look '_Well, that was one way to do it_.'

"Max has known for a little while," I explain slowly. "I've meant to tell you about it, but I was too nervous."

"…dude, what the _hell_?" Iggy stutters out.

"I'm sorry I've hid this, but I had to now –"

"You know how many awesome pranks we could have pulled off with the wings?" Iggy exclaims, making an exaggerated expression of hurt.

I stare. "What?"

"Iggy, you are the most simple-minded person I have ever met. And that is _not_ a compliment," Max says.

Iggy bows. "It's a natural talent." He looks at me again. "So, they work and everything?"

For an answer, I flap them once and launch up a few feet, hovering above the ground a few seconds.

"Gnarly," Iggy responds. "Angel wasn't lying."

"_What_?" I exclaim, dumbfounded. "Angel _told_ you? You _knew_?"

"Yeah. I mean, I didn't believe her at first. But then, it sort of made sense and stuff. So what's the im-por-tan-te occasion?"

Finally – back to business.

I land on the ground, folding in my wings. "Angel's been kidnapped by my newly found father who turned evil. I need your pyro assistance to recapture her. You may be put into highly dangerous situations where you may be seriously hurt and/or killed. Situations may require you to use hand-to-hand combat, explosives, and/or witty banter. You in?"

Iggy sits, contemplating, but then asks, "How many bombs can I have?"

I feel my lips twitch into a smile. "As many as you can carry on your person."

"That's what I like to hear," Iggy says, winking.

He grins in my direction.

"I'm in. What's the plan?"

* * *

**And this chapter is dedicated to **_**Help Is on the Way**_** by Rise Against.**

**On the plus side, I have the next chapter planned out, so maybe an update soon?**

**For more curiosity purposes, if you read the ending author notes and you review, include the word **_**'fangtastic'**_** in the review. Just because I'm curious.**

**Thanks for following my story and leaving behind reactions and bits of wisdom! It makes the story better, and it makes me a better author.**

**Here's to improvement and the love of reading and writing!**

**R&R?**


	39. Chapter 39

**I'm back! Thanks for all the feedback and the author note challenge words! Out of 10 or 11 (I forget the total), I had 8. That's great! I'll keep writing these, then.**

**Here is chapter 39! A bit more preparation to go, but the ultimate show-down (inspired by the feedback I got) is on its way! So sit back, read, and enjoy a bit more humor as the A-team gets ready to rescue Angel – once and for all.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

* * *

_Dooooo!_

Iggy, Max, and I all wince at the noise.

I can hear the cell phone trying to connect, even though Iggy is the one holding the phone to his ear. Why is the sound so shrill and annoying? I'd use my phone –well, I'd get a phone, then use it – much more if when I called, "Yakety Sax" played instead of those high-pitched rings. They sound like screams rather than a phone ring.

Scream is a bad word. Brings up images of Angel, images I don't want floating in my head, nonetheless becoming reality.

Anyway, the reason Iggy is holding the siren-phone is because he's calling his cousin Nudge.

Next question: Why is he calling Nudge?

Answer: We need her smartical assistance.

Nudge is super smart when it comes to computers. She can find things the best hackers couldn't uncover. So, obviously, we are hoarding her for ourselves.

So, we need to ask her to come over and do some research. Basically, I want her to find a floor plan of my father's medicine company (which, luckily, I remember the name of). If we know the layout, we can theorize where Angel could be, mark routes, and create an escape plan.

However, we have to get in, first.

Here is where we Nudge again – this time for her technological and fashionista self.

We are going undercover.

Just call us the Masters of Disguise.

Nudge remade me over, once – from the last time I had to Angel.

The first time.

And this will be the last, even if I die trying.

Beyond our looks, I want to know if Nudge has any gadgets for disguising our voices. I figure that my father will have security briefed on everything about me – looks, voices, postures. Concealing our voices will be much trickier (requiring scripts, cameras, gadgets, and someone to cover our voices) but accents are _definitely_ out.

For me, at least.

My attempts at accents are terrible, to say the least.

My southern accent sounds like a drunken George W. Bush with a mental disability. My Boston accent sounds like a little boy going through puberty while simultaneously being paddled. My New York accent is scant, since the only thing I can successfully say is "turkey burger," which doesn't get me anywhere. I can pull a British accent for a bit, but if I have to talk in audible decibel ranges, I sound like someone shoved a chimney brush up my derriere and pulled me around like a little red wagon for a while.

The only accent I could pull off without it not matching my appearance is Italian; however, since the only Italian accent I ever heard came from the Muppets, I don't believe I should use it.

Ugh! *Mentally punches an imaginary wall in frustration* It's so inconvenient.

Well. Anyway. Back to the phone call.

The shrill-and-clearly-not-lovable-Yakety-Sax rings cut off, and a voice filters through the speaker.

"Hello?"

Nudge.

"Yo, Nudge. It's Iggy," Iggy answers. "Ya free today?"

Just answer yes or no. Just _yes_ or _no_ –

"Yeah! I mean, Monica and I were going to go to the mall, but then she got grounded because she forgot to clean her room, which is so stupid because why do rooms need to be clean? Like, bedrooms? It's your own personal space, so you should organize it however you want, right? Anyway, no one should even be in your room unless you invite them in, and if they have a problem with your room's cleanliness, they can tell you and you can either clean a little or move to a different room. Well, except cats. They can go anywhere they want, anytime! One time, Monica's cat Sylvester crawled into a pile of clothes and fell asleep, but Monica didn't know so she shut the cat in her room on accident for hours! I mean, the cat was fine and they eventually realized and let her out, but apparently the cat had gotten hungry and ate the corners of Monica's books which made her really mad. Who would eat books? They have to taste bad, because paper tastes gross and –"

"NUDGE!" Iggy exclaims. "My ears are bleeding. It was a yes or no question. Not an essay prompt."

"Sorry. Sometimes I just get carried away about what is going on in my life and I don't know when to be quiet –"

"Nudge, you're doing it again," Iggy warns.

I hear giggling over the phone. "Oops. What's up?"

Iggy holds out the phone. "It's for you, man," he says, looking at me.

I stride a few steps forward and snatch the phone, holding it up to my ear.

"Hey, Nudge. It's Fang," I say.

"Hi, Fang! I haven't seen you in a long time! What's up with you –"

"Nudge," I interrupt, "I need you to focus for a second. You need to listen to what I have to say and not interrupt, okay? Do you have a pencil and paper around?"

"Yeah. Okay. Here a pencil is! It's purple with little heart shapes on it –"

"Nudge. Focus."

"Right. Sorry."

I pause for a moment, waiting to see if Nudge is going to start again. When silence meets my ear, I begin.

"Nudge, I have a few huge favors to ask. First off, I need you to research a company for me. It's called Velocity, and it's supposedly a medicinal research company. What I want are floor plans for the building. Every level, if possible. I need to eliminate any blind spots. You got that?" I finish, taking a deep breath.

How does Nudge _do _that?

"Velocity…floor Plans… all levels…got it."

A moment of silence follows, but Nudge picks up again.

"Something bad has happened, hasn't it?" Nudge asks, all her previous enthusiasm gone. "Someone's been taken."

I subconsciously turn my back on Max and Iggy, as if I can shut them out, and shut out the reality of it all.

"Angel," I say softly, my eyes closing. "Angel's gone."

"Oh God, Fang. I'm so sorry –"

"I don't need apologies, Nudge, I need information!" I snap, my tendons in my hand tightening. I take a deep breath and focus on relaxing my hand. "I'm sorry, Nudge. That was out of line."

"Don't worry, Fang," Nudge consoles. "In the time it will take you to get here, I'll have floor plans, a security camera map, and what the cafeteria is serving for lunch and how many people got what."

I give a half-hearted scoff. "Thanks, Nudge. I've got more, though."

I hear paper being adjusted. "Shoot."

"Got any devices that can disguise voices? Good ones?"

I hear a pencil tapping, and I can tell she's thinking about it. "Well, I have a scrambler, but that doesn't sound very convincing. Hmm… oh, I know! I was just fiddling around with these things the other day. It's like a mini microphone; it clips to your collar or wherever, but instead of talking into it, it acts like a one-way walkie talkie. One half of the chip receives the audio, and the other vocalizes someone else's voice. The sound quality on these things is _phenomenal_, and the wiring is just expert, but I managed to rig them however I wanted. How many do we need?"

"Three. One for me, one for Iggy, and one for Max," I reply, feeling relief settling in. _Maybe this will work_.

"Cool. I'll search them out. You're going to need someone to do the voices, too, who's behind the scenes. And Max? I never met a guy named Max."

"That's because Max isn't a guy – she's a girl," I reply, watching out of the corner of my eye as Max scowls.

"Oh. OH. My bad," Nudge says. More scuffling is heard. "Are you sure you don't want to just use accents? It wouldn't be half the trouble."

"No. Accents are out," I say, frowning myself. I hear Max start laughing. "Accents are definitely out."

"Cool! I'll see you in twenty, I guess. Anything else?" Nudge asks.

"Get your make-up kit out. We're going to need some serious disguises."

And here it comes…

"ZOMG REALLY! That's so cool! I love doing makeovers, and this is so secret agent it's awesome! I'll get everything ready! Are any of you guys up for blue hair? I just got this new kit and it's _so _legit I –"

I hang up on the Nudge Channel and turn around to face Max and Iggy.

"We have what we need. Got to head to Nudge's," I say, walking toward the door. I hear Iggy and Max follow me.

Suddenly, I stop. In response, Iggy and Max stop, also.

I turn around to face them. "Do you guys know anyone who could cover our voices?"

Iggy stares out, thinking, but Max starts to smile.

"Yes, I do," she says, "and I know just how to get him to do it."

"How can we get a hold of him?" Iggy's ask, walking toward his garage.

"Just go to my house," Max answers.

Iggy hops in the driver's seat, and I hastily make my way to the passenger seat.

"Do you need his number or something there?" I ask, trying to claim shotgun before Max realizes.

"No. He's – hey! What do you think _you're_ doing?" Max exclaims, spotting my sneaky maneuvers.

Max charges for the passenger door, but I open it and clamber inside, locking the door.

"Cheater!" Max yells, banging on the door. "I'm the one giving you a voice-cover-er! I should get shotgun!"

"I don't know the dude. Hence, you sit in back with him," I reply, smirking through the glass window.

Max reluctantly climbs into the back, scowling. "He's at my house. You know him."

"I have no clue who –"

I stop, thinking.

"Wait… are you saying that –"

"Yes," Max says, smiling. "And you're about to find out that he can make more than nauseating gases."

* * *

Iggy pulls up to Max's house, parking along the side of the road.

"This will only take a minute," Max says, clambering out of the car.

"Famous last words," Iggy mutters as the door shuts, and I watch Max run to her front door, unlock it, and run inside.

True to her word, a minute later the door opens and Max runs outside, knocking on the window. I roll it down and give her a look that reads, "_We're waiting."_

"Okay, so here's the deal," Max starts. "He wants a king-sized Snickers bar, a day at Merryland Amusement Park, and a free bomb lesson with Iggy."

She looks at Iggy. "I told him about your…er, talent."

He shrugs. "I'm all cool for that, but a Snickers and a roller coaster? How old is this dude – eight?"

"Nine, actually."

Iggy and I both snap our heads to gaze past Max, eying the newest speaker.

And there is Gazzy, in his nine-year-old glory. He's skinny and a bit tall for his age, with a mop of blonde hair on his head and bright blue eyes – like Max's dad's. He watches us with a patient expression on his face. "I'm not eight; I'm nine. And I want to help."

Iggy stares at Max incredulously. "What are you thinking?"

She gives him a look. "Trust me – he's the real deal."

Iggy rolls his eyes, looking annoyed and not trusting Max one bit.

Max takes the opportunity to open the car door and hop in, Gazzy following along. The car door closes, and they both fasten their seatbelts. Iggy pulls away from the curb and starts driving to Nudge's house.

"So," Iggy starts, eyeing Gazzy with the rearview mirror. "Let's hear this great talent of yours, 'Gazzy.' Got any good ones – like the Wiggles?"

Iggy's being a bit rude, and I let him know by punching his arm.

Just a bit hard, though. Nothing too damaging.

"Ow! Don't hit the driver!" Iggy whines, glancing at his arm and taking a hand to rub it.

"The driver shouldn't be a jerk to allies, then," I mutter, staring straight ahead.

"And the driver should brush his hair, because it looks like a flock of birds decided to nest in it," I say.

Only, I didn't say it.

It was my voice, but I didn't say it.

_What_?

"Hey!" Iggy exclaims, glaring at me. "Don't insult the allies, _Fang_!"

"I didn't say it!" I say, putting up my hands in a surrender gesture.

"Yeah, yeah," Iggy says, scowling. "_Sure_ it wasn't you."

"You're just jealous of the booger hanging from my nose," Iggy says.

"Hey – I didn't say that!" Iggy exclaims, looking bamboozled. His gaze is everywhere until he finally spots Gazzy, silently cackling.

"You… you were doing that?" Iggy asks, a certain wonder in his voice.

"Of course. It's my talent. I can do Max, too," Gazzy says. Then he glares. "Unless you'd rather have the _Wiggles_."

Iggy blushes in shame, eating his words. "Sorry, little man – I judged before I knew. Name's Iggy. Iggy Martins. Bomb extraordinaire. "

Gazzy grins. "Zepher Ride. Called Gazzy. Able to produce smells from my behind that make people pass out. And into bombs."

Iggy nods, a smile gracing his lips. "So, what kind of bombs have you built? Or do you not know how to yet?"

"No, I've made some! When I was seven, I took Max's alarm clock and made a time bomb, and I used it to help my dad get rid of this huge shrub –"

"Hey!" Max exclaims. "_That's_ what happened to my Mickey Mouse clock?"

I snort. "_You_ had a _Mickey Mouse_ clock?"

Max glares. "Oh, shut it, Mr. Snuggles the Teddy Bear Man."

I give her a weird look. "I never had a teddy bear named Snuggles. I never had a teddy bear, period."

Max gives me a look. "Work with me, emo boy!"

I start laughing – legit laughing.

Yeah, I know.

"Well, if you want your clock back, its remains are where the bush used to be," Gazzy says, trying to help.

Max glares.

I laugh harder.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Iggy parks the car in Nudge's driveway. In front of us, a blue-grey, worn-down house stands. Its roof shingles are patchy and black, the front door is a washed-out shade of forest green, and the grass is browning and overgrown. The windows are dirty and hard to see into, and the driveway is made of rocks. However, the stone path to the front door is lined by beautiful, red geraniums, obviously loved a great deal, and they shine against the shabby but quaint home.

Home. I find my memories of home disappearing. Will I ever regain one? Permanently?

Everyone spills out of the car. I shove my hands into my pockets as we walk down the stone path, feeling anxiety start to seep into my system. This was a huge step towards rescuing Angel. Once our adventure here is over, we head over to Velocity to make our entrance.

_I'm coming, Angel_.

Iggy knocks on the door with three loud slams.

"Coming!" I hear from inside the house. Running footsteps are heard, then the door flings open.

"Hi!" Nudge says, her crazy curly hair settled in a huge mane around her face. "Come in!"

We all tramp into her house, kicking off our shoes like good little house guests. Max, Gazzy, and I start to follow Nudge to a kitchen-looking area, Iggy straying off in the opposite direction.

"I've got to call Laura now, if you want her to get here soon," Iggy says, whipping out his cell.

"Laura?" Nudge, Max, and Gazzy all ask at the same time, which is a ton creepier than it seems.

"You'll find out later," I say. I jerk my head in the direction of the kitchen, raising my eyebrows at Nudge.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "Right. Sorry. Right through here is where I have all the stuff."

Our gang waltzes into the kitchen, spreading ourselves around a baby blue card table.

"So, here's the info on Velocity you wanted," Nudge says. "It was sort of hard getting into their files – way harder than the Ibex place you wanted last time or whatever it was called – but I managed to skirt around the firewall and guess my way through a few security codes, and BAM! Floor plans and security maps. And for lunch they had turkey with mashed potatoes and carrots. Which, I'm sure is okay, but I wouldn't eat it, because right now I'm on a vegetarian kick, just to see what it's like, but I'm not sure I'll be able to last much longer because I've been craving bacon for the past few days now and –mmm!"

Gazzy's hand is over Nudge's motor mouth.

"I think my ears are bleeding. I should have been warned – ew!"

Gazzy removes his hand rapidly, wiping it on his camo shorts. "She just licked me! Ew!"

Nudge smirks. "You're a mini Iggy. Bleeding ears, hand over the mouth thing –"

"This is Gazzy," Max interrupts. "He's the guy who is going to be our voice over."

"Really?" Nudge asks, her eyes widening. "That's cool, I guess. I always wanted to be able to do different accents and voices. I bet you get in trouble for it a lot, though –"

"So. This mike thing," I interject.

"Oh! Right!" Nudge exclaims, and I roll my eyes. She picks up what looks like a black button and some earpiece. She clips the button to the inside of my T-shirt collar and gives me the earpiece to put in. I insert it into my ear and give her an expectant look.

"The earpiece is so… Gazzy, right?... yeah, so Gazzy can tell you what he's going to say. You'll hear him through the speaker and the earpiece, so you can mouth the words accurately. The speaker in the chip I pinned on you is superb, so there shouldn't be any recording-sounding static or fuzz that tips anyone off. The chip and the earpiece are wireless, and have a decent range, but once you enter the building and go to a lower floor, we'll lose signal, so the closer you can plant Gazzy and me, the better. Ok? Gazzy will speak into this mike –"

Nudge gestures toward a small headset.

"– and you'll hear it in your earpiece. For him to transmit a sound to the chip, he has to press a button right here. "

Nudge points to a red button on the side of the headset.

"And that's it! Fairly simple, really. It was just difficult to transmit two different waves, one to the chip and one away from it –"

"Thank you, Nudge," I interrupt again, knowing that the Nudge Channel was heading into the dangerous territory of tech-geek terminology. "This helps us a ton."

"No problem! Besides, my favorite part is coming up!" Nudge says, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Favorite part?" Max asks, looking scared.

You should be scared, Max. Kiss your current looks goodbye.

"Dressing you up, of course!" Nudge squeals.

Max rubs a hand down her face. "If this wasn't necessary torture, I would _so_ not do this."

I pat her arm in mock sympathy, which earns me a punch on my arm.

"Okay!" Iggy yells, entering the room and shutting his cell phone shut. "We're in business! Laura will drop the uniforms off in a few minutes."

"Uniforms?" Max asks, looking confused.

"Part of our disguises," I answer.

"What _kind_ of uniforms, exactly?" Max asks, looking suspicious.

"Nothing bad. Just pizza delivery uniforms," Iggy answers.

"How did _he_ know about it, but I didn't?" Max asks.

"I thought it up. You were peeing when I came up with the idea. When you came back, you started cooking popcorn, and it slipped my mind," Iggy answers.

Max rolls her eyes, but otherwise does nothing.

"So, little cuz, what do you have in mind for our make-overs?" Iggy asks Nudge.

Bad idea, Igs.

Insert Nudge Channel.

"Well, now that you mentioned the delivery outfits, I think I'll go more teenage delinquent. As for your exact looks, I want to surprise you all. But just so you know, all of you are getting your hair dyed. And I was thinking of trying out this new supply kit I bought yesterday…"

I tune out the Nudge Channel, staring at the wall.

_Knock knock knock!_

The knocks on the door bring me back to reality.

"Coming!" Iggy shouts, running to the door.

Curious as to whom this Laura is, I follow him and watch around the corner of the wall.

Iggy opens the door.

"Hello, Laura! This means so much!" Iggy says in an overly cheery tone.

"Oh, no problem, sweetcakes. I'd do anything for you, hot stuff," a voice (Laura's, I assume) replies.

I take a risk and peer around the corner more.

Oh, Lordy.

Laura is a woman in her mid-sixties with heavy amounts of bright make-up on and permed bleach-blonde hair. Wrinkles already adorn her face, and she is wearing bright purple sweats with kittens on them.

*Shivers*

Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a cougar, hunting some Iggy-meat.

"Glad to know, Laura. I hope you enjoy working at Del Mani's still," Iggy says, shutting the door on the colorful cougar.

Laura shoves her foot in the way, though.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" she asks, almost purring.

"Uh, it's just so messy, you don't want to come in –"

"I don't mind. Let's _clean up_ together."

I dash to the kitchen, hoping to save Iggy from the dangerous cougar.

"Gaz!" I whisper shout. "I need you to do a girl voice. You need to save Iggy from this old woman."

"What should I say –"

"_Now_, Gaz –"

"But –"

Max slaps his back.

"_Yeeeeoch!"_ Gaz yells, his voice high pitched.

Iggy and Laura's convo has paused.

"What was that?" Laura asks.

"Uh, it's my, uh…"

"Girlfriend," I finish for him, peeping into the doorway. "Her name is Clarissa and she works for Subway."

Laura huffs. "_Subway_? How _dare_ you date our healthy competition!"

She slaps Iggy across the face.

Then she gazes at me.

"You, however, can call me _anytime_," she says, purring.

"Uh –"

She takes something out of her pocket, peels something off, and slaps it onto my arm before leaving, trying to sway her hips.

MY EYES ARE BLEEDING.

I look down from the hideous site to see a number on the peel-away. I quickly peel it off and run to the trashcan, throwing it away.

"Thanks, man," Iggy says, walking back to the kitchen. "I was almost attacked. But I got the uniforms!"

He places them on the table.

"So, Nudge. Ya ready to extreme makeover – at home edition on us?" Iggy asks.

Something glints in Nudge's eyes, and I suddenly feel my stomach drop ten feet.

"Yep. Who's first?"

* * *

Apparently, my friends are good for nothing, because they instantly shoved me forward and helped Nudge blindfold me.

I feel scissors scrape my forehead, and I flinch on instinct.

"Sit still! I'll cut something off wrong if you keep moving!"

"You've already cut something wrong off – my hair," I retort, scowling.

"Oh, stop being a baby," Nudge says, sounding annoyed.

_Snip, snip_.

"Ugh, your hair is so thick, it's annoying. And all these curled ends are making me unsure of how much I've really cut off."

"S'not my fault. I didn't conceive myself."

Nudge huffs.

Eventually, it must be short enough or whatever, because then I feel the chair being moved. The back of my chair hits something, and I feel it with my feet. It's hard, so I'm guessing a counter. When the faucet turns on, I realize I am near a sink.

"Hmm," Nudge says, and I get uneasy.

"Nothing _too_ radical, right Nudge?" I ask, giving an uneasy laugh.

"I like this color," she decides, and I feel some cool goo fall into my hair. Fingers massage my scalp, and it almost feels good – if it weren't for the fact that my hair might be turning some bright shade of pink. More cold goo is placed on my scalp, and my hair is being pulled up.

The hands are gone, and I sit there for a few minutes. Then, hot water meets my head, and I flinch on contact.

The hands are back, and the cold goo is leaving my scalp. The faucet turns off, and a towel is rubbed viciously through my hair. My head is shoved up, and the chair slides across the floor. I hear something being plugged in, and suddenly warm air is being blown onto my head. My hair flies everywhere, and I mourn silently for my old hair.

The air turns off. Something is unplugged, and set down. Someone walks over and undoes the blindfold.

The light shines into my eyes, and I blink it away for a few seconds, adjusting. When they do adjust, I wish they hadn't.

Because Nudge is approaching me with some kind of black pencil.

And it's heading toward my eye.

"No!" I yell, scooting the chair backward. "NO eyeliner."

"Come on! It gives a hard-rocker vibe, and it's totally emo-delinquent."

"NO!" I yell, but my chair is being held by Max, who is laughing at me.

Traitor.

The pencil is so close.

I slap at Nudge's hands, but they fight back.

The pencil's tip hits the corner of my eye.

"MY MANHOOD IS BEING RIPPED AWAY!"

I slap the pencil again, and it flies down my cheek.

"Look what you did!" Nudge cries. "It just looks like some black scar!"

"Whatever. Just NO EYELINER. ON. MY. EYE," I dictate, close to snarling.

Nudge rolls her eyes. "_Fine_."

She gets some red powder and some black gunk and traces it along the eyeliner line, I guess making it look scar-like. Finally, the stuff goes away, and she holds out several small, silver hoops.

"They're fake earrings, and this one is a fake nose ring. Put them on, two hoops on the left ear, three on the right, and the nose ring on your right nostril," Nudge instructs, then hands me a mirror and the earrings.

I place the rings into my lap and hold up the mirror.

"HOLY SHI… NDIG."

I almost drop the mirror from what I see.

My hair, for one, is short. As in, most shaggy aspects are gone. My hair is gelled to stick out in all different directions, but not like spikes. Just messy.

But that's not the bad part.

My hair is _electric blue_.

Not completely – it's like it was tie-dyed in, or something. Black remains where the blue isn't.

But it's still BLUE.

The 'scar' along my eye, looks pretty BA, and I place the fake hoops along my ears and in my nostril as Nudge instructed. The overall effect: I don't look like me.

And that's the point.

So, even though I'm appalled, I thank Nudge.

…and then I help duct tape Max into the chair and blindfold her.

Hint: her hair will most definitely be pink.

* * *

An hour later, Max as shoulder-length, layered bubble gum pink hair and a heavy amount of black make-up on. Iggy was also done, having bleach-blonde, spiked hair with black tips. He had fallen asleep waiting, however, and sported some nice black eyeliner and a bunny drawn on his cheek.

We all dawn the pizza-delivery uniforms and walk into the kitchen, grabbing the ear-piece garb and such.

"Has everyone looked at the floor plans? We all know where we're going?" I ask, one final time.

"Yes," Max and Iggy chorus together.

"Are we all ready?" I ask.

For yes's greet me, and I give a stiff nod.

"Then let's go," I say, heading toward the car.

_Let's come get you, Ange. Before something happens_.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful music of the Vitamin String Quartet, particularly the covers of **_**Lose Yourself **_**(by Eminem), **_**Another One Bites the Dust**_** (by Queen), and **_**Headstrong**_** (by Trapt).**

**R&R?**


	40. Chapter 40

**So, this chapter is unforgivably short, but I procrastinated this, and now I'm in a time crunch before I leave for vacation. This also means that there will not be a decent length chapter for over a week. **

**Enjoy this small amount, anyway.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride**

* * *

"I can't believe you let – no, _helped_ – Nudge die my hair _bright pink_."

I roll my eyes at Max's comment, secretly smirking on the inside.

"You tried to help Nudge put eyeliner on me. I call it even," I say.

"I didn't _succeed_, though. You did –"

"This just makes me totally awesome."

"Shut up."

Iggy snorts next to us. "You two are like an old married couple."

"We are _not_!" Max and I exclaim at the same time.

Iggy rolls his eyes. "At least you don't have a semi-permanent bunny suction-cupped onto your face."

Currently, we are hiding behind bushes, near a stoplight on 45th street. Why? Because this is the location for a pizza-delivery ambush.

See, we had Gazzy order pizza from Del Mani's under the disguise of some old man. A crap-load of pizza. Del Mani's is going to deliver the pizza, believing that a staff meeting requested ten large supreme-with-pineapple pizzas.

However, we don't need the Del Mani's delivery guy to get into the building. _We_ need to get in.

Hence, delinquent disguises, Del Mani's pizza uniforms, and voice-concealing devices.

Iggy has somehow jacked into the stoplight control panel, allowing him to control the lights. Normally, I'd be a bit more concerned about the safety hazards involved in changing lights, but 45th street is not very busy.

And frankly, I don't care.

When the pizza delivery vehicle comes up in the distance, Iggy will trigger the yellow light, then the red, forcing the pizza guy to stop.

Then, we hijack the vehicle.

Which will probably involve knocking the poor sucker out and duct-taping him to the back seat.

My morals are really twisted, aren't they?

We've been sitting behind this bush for twenty minutes already, though, and I'm starting to grow antsy. What if they took an alternative route? What if they have already arrived at Velocity and totally blown our entrance plan? What if –

"Target sighted," Nudge's voice sounds through the earpieces, snapping me out of my fear-fest. "Trigger the amarillo."

"No need for the español, Nudge," Iggy mutters, knowing she can hear him through the chip on our collars. He fiddles with two wires, and I look up to see the spotlight turn yellow.

"There!" Max whisper-shouts. "I see it."

Soon enough, I can see the white-turning-brown delivery car approach the stoplight, slowing down.

"And… got it," Iggy says, and the light turns red, causing the car to stop completely.

No other car is in sight, which couldn't be more perfect. I mean, it might look suspicious if seemingly pizza-delivery people hijack a pizza car.

Remember those morals? Yeah, I don't think they really exist, because I'm actually excited.

As the car sits at the red light, I see our poor victim drumming the steering wheel in annoyance. I see the huge amount of pizzas in the back, and my stomach growls viciously.

"Fantasizing, Fang?" Iggy asks, smirking.

Then, Iggy's stomach roars, and he blushes a nice shade of pink.

"Fantasizing, Iggy?" I say, smirking in return.

He glares, and then focuses on the car again.

"Ready?" I say, getting up to a crouch so I can get up.

"Yes," I hear Max and Iggy say, and I grin evilly.

"Let's go, then. Max, if you would," I say, gesturing for Max to go towards the car for her part.

Max gets up from the bushes, subconsciously smoothing down her short, bubble gum-pink hair. She strides over to the car, swaying her hips excessively to seem flirtatious.

"Enjoying the view?" Iggy asks, a stupid grin on his face.

I smack the back of his head, causing him to fall forward.

"Hey! Don't hurt the accomplice! It was an innocent question!" Iggy says, laughing.

I smack him once more over the head.

"This is getting really old," Iggy mutters, but his cheeky grin shows he has no hard feelings at all.

Max knocks on the pizza guy's window, and I can only assume she is giving some sort of coy smile, since all I see is her back.

The pizza guy is all ears, though, because he swiftly rolls down his window and engages in flirtatious conversation.

"Poor sucker," I mutter, watching the scene unfold.

The guy nods, and gestures for her to get in. Max walks around to the other side of the car, and before she gets in, she winks at us.

_All is good_.

She opens the car door and climbs in.

I see pizza dude turn to talk to her… then, I see his face fly to the opposite direction as Max deftly punches him in the cheek. She slams his head into the steering wheel harshly, then, presses on a pressure point to make him slump over, unconscious.

"Dude, that's hot," Iggy mutters, wide-eyed and amazed.

For once, I don't smack him.

We stand up from the bushes, after Iggy returns the stoplight's control to the automatic timer. We stride over to the car and open the driver's door, heaving the deadweight from the driver's seat and placing him the back. Iggy climbs into the back with Unconscious Dude while I climb into the driver's seat. Iggy proceeds to start the massive duct taping, and I turn around, going to get Nudge and Gazzy.

"That was…impressive," I say to Max, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.

She shrugs, smirking a bit. "My dad made me take self-defense classes at one point in time, and I did kick-boxing for several years."

"Well, it was very…impressive."

"What Fang means to say is that he thinks it's supermegafoxyawesomehot," Iggy interjects, smirking.

Max glares at him, then glances at me. However, I can't stop from smirking.

"I won't deny that statement," I say, the smirk increasing.

"You're both pigs," Max says coolly, but I see the small joking smile on her face.

I can't help but chuckle as I stop the car and let Nudge and Gazzy in, enjoying some of the last bits of humor I'll get before everything goes south.

* * *

We pull up a couple blocks from Velocity, letting Nudge and Gazzy out.

"You have everything you need?" Max asks, glancing at the small black backpack Nudge holds in her hand.

"Yep! It all fits in here. No need to worry – it works fine, because we tested it at the stoplight. Good luck on your mission. Remember, Gazzy will tell you what he will say, then he'll say it again. You say it with him the second time through. Got it? Cool! So, I was thinking that there aren't any bushes to hide behind with Velocity, so we'll have to be in an alley near this medicine site. Okay? Cool. See you later!" Nudge says all in one breath, leaving me no opportunity to insert any words.

At this point, I forgot what I was going to say, so I say, "Uh, you too."

Nudge and Gazzy weave into the crowd, soon disappearing from sight. I'm slightly amazed that an eleven-year-old and a nine-year-old can blend in so quickly without trouble, but I focus back on my task.

I pull away from the curb, driving the meager blocks remaining to the building. I pull into the drive towards the building, stopping at a security/toll both like thing. A red and white bar stops my passage towards the large, grey stone building, and an overweight, bored-looking security guard looks at me in expectation, chomping on a piece of gum.

Oh, crap.

"Uh…," I begin uselessly, realizing that I don't have a voice-over. _Do Nudge and Gazzy know about this?_

"Reason for visitation?" the security guard asks, no interest whatsoever.

Silence greets my ear, and I wonder if I'll have to do an accent after all.

Oh, God.

This is going downhill.

I open my mouth to fake something out when I hear Gazzy through my ear.

"_Pizza for a staff meeting at Velocity,"_ Gazzy says into my earpiece. "_Ready?"_

"Pizza for a staff meeting at Velocity," I say.

Only, I don't say it. I mouth it.

The person whose voice the security person hears has a lower voice than I do. It sounds bored and at ease, and it has an Italian accent that doesn't sound like the Muppets.

I almost show my surprise, but I manage to control my face, a bored, stony exterior displaying instead.

The security guy sits up taller in his booth, his face suspicious. Was it my voice? It sounded so real to me. I matched it exactly, too.

"Pizza for what meeting?" he asks, and I only notice now that he isn't overweight after all; he's just so freaking buff that he's bulging out of his uniform.

Oh, _shit_.

Please work, plan… please work, plan…

I may be genetically enhanced, but super-muscle-y man + skinny bird-kid = bird-kid snapped like twig.

"_You mean which room?"_ Gazzy says in my ear, and I mouth the words as he repeats them to the guard.

"Yeah, that works," he says, narrowing his eyes.

Crap – what room to say?

"_Don't say this, but Nudge is looking it up. She almost has it…It's -"_

"Room 4-A," I mouth Gazzy's answer.

The security guard doesn't let his tense stance fall, but I can read the relaxation in his eyes. He believes us.

"Okay," he says, opening the door. Why are you opening the door, Macho Man? Why? "But I have to inspect it first. For safety reasons."

I almost give an audible sigh of relief. _Thank God_.

"Sure," I hear Iggy say, except he has a higher-pitched voice, the nasal quality cutting across in the silence of the car. I bet Iggy is fuming on the inside – Gazzy is totally screwing him over for fun.

Macho Man opens the back door to see Iggy and a huge stack of pizzas.

Where is the delivery guy, you ask?

…It's better for you not to know. Trust me.

Macho Man opens up the box on top and grabs a slice, sniffing it with an almost loving expression on his face.

"Del Mani's, huh? Good stuff," he says, proceeding to take a hefty bite.

I'm sure the guard is singing "Hallelujah" on the inside, based on his expression.

"I'll just take another piece for good measure," Macho Man mumbles, taking a second slice. He closes the box and shuts the door, going back into the booth. He pushes a button and the bar rises.

I take the car out of park and drive forward, the grey building coming closer.

Finally, a circle drive comes into view, a huge door in view. Two security guards, equally as built as Macho Man, stand beside the grand entrance, postures stiff and holding hefty rifles.

I park along the circle, climbing out. Max and Iggy follow in suit, and we grab all the pizzas into our arms. We stride toward the doors, and the guards stare us down. I almost think that we might have to go through this procedure again, but then a call comes in over one of their pagers, and something sounds out. Macho Clone 2 puts the pager away and looks at us.

He nods once, opening the doors for us to enter.

Inside, I'm doing a victory dance.

On the outside, I keep my bored exterior, my ulterior motives disguised.

We're in.

We're _in_.

And on our way to getting Angel.

The guards shut the door behind us. Macho Clone 3 stays with us, I guess following us to meeting room 4-A.

That's problematic, but three against one are my kind of odds.

"_Hey, Fang,_" Nudge's voice sounds in my ear, unheard by Macho Clone 3. "_There is this symbol on the building."_

I pretend to scratch my neck, tapping the chip once to confirm I'm listening.

"_Well, I saw the symbol – a V within two looping blue and red circles – somewhere else."_

I sniff loudly, my signal for her that I am surprised.

"_When you had me look up Itex so long ago, a symbol similar came up. Only, the symbol was only associated with it as an owner – Itex was a branch of whatever company it is."_

My curiosity is raging on the inside, and my _Holy-Cranoodle-This-Is-Bad_ meter is starting to skyrocket.

So, is Velocity a branch like Itex? What is the mother company?

"_The thing is, I'm not sure Itex's situation is similar to Velocity. The symbol is like its logo… I think Velocity is the head company. The head honcho. The thing controlling everything else."_

Oh, hell no.

That means…

"_If what you told me about your father is true – that he's CEO of Velocity – that means he the head honcho. He's in charge of not only Velocity, but Itex and every other branch."_

My father owns Itex.

My father owns Mayhem.

He's in charge of Jeb, Ari, my mother, and even Bald, Old, and Evil.

He's done more than take Angel.

He gave Jeb that medicine that made him bitter. He gave Mom the same pills that made her crazy.

The same pills he fed me to make me almost attack Angel.

He knew about the wings, about the experiments, about everything that's happened to me in a lab ever.

He's been in charge of the whole thing.

He can do anything he wants, anytime.

What could happen to Angel, then, is limitless.

I might be too late, even after all this.

If he's even touched a hair on her head, messed a _single thing _up, I won't just take him down.

I'll take him down forever.

* * *

**Unfortunately, this is where I have to end the chapter. I'm out of time! **

**We're in, though. Yay?**

**I saw Harry Potter 7, Part 2, **_**at Midnight **_**on Thursday**_**.**_** And it was awesome! There goes my childhood, though.**

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Original Prankster**_** by The Offspring. There is a great Harry Potter video made to this, about the Weasley Twins, that you should watch here (without spaces): **http: / www. youtube. com / watch ?v =50 chH 20T 0hs

**R&R?**


	41. Chapter 41

**Well, I said a week, and once again, I ended up being a liar. I need to stop that.**

**It's chapter 41! Who would have thought I'd still be writing this story for 40+ chapters? I didn't expect it. But no regrets – I love this story to bits and pieces.**

**The reason I didn't get to type it up sooner is because of an unforeseen difficulty – AKA, I had to watch a neighbors dogs, which I've done before. However, in previous years, they have always had a computer with Internet access I could use. Now, however, they switched their rooted computer for a laptop, and unfortunately, they took it with them. Since I have no laptop of my own, I had no way. So instead, I've been handwriting it.**

**Enjoy what I have so far!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride or anything else I unwittingly quote/use.**

* * *

The weight of the task ahead of me finally settled onto my shoulders. Not only do I have to rescue my Angel, navigate through a foreign and menacing medicine-factory-turned-evil-headquarters, battle whatever minions appear, and protect Max and Iggy from serious harm (I can only pray that Nudge and Gazzy are safe), but now I also have to take down the Ringleader of Velocity (which is now known to be the head corporation controlling Itex _and_ Mayhem). Also, this Ringleader doubles as my father, the man I thought had died until a few weeks ago when he reappeared, gained some of my trust, and then deceived me.

*takes a deep breath*

_Phew_.

….oh, and keep myself alive.

Sounds simple, right?

I better stop thinking about it before I start laughing psychotically.

Mentally (wasn't I already?), I start strategizing, arranging priorities and necessary actions into a master scheme.

First priority: Get rid of Macho Clone 3 – AKA, the security guard following us.

If you are asking yourself, "What guard?", you need to backtrack in my story: a guard followed us into the building, making sure the pizza was being delivered to the proper room and that we promptly rushed out of the building.

Since it's a bit difficult to break away on a rescue mission with a building's authorized security personnel on your tail feathers, it becomes a bit necessary to do something.

A. Deliver the delicious pizza to a confused but willing meeting and leave the building.

B. Bust this guy's head in and then lock him in some random closet, gagged.

C. Try to bribe this guy in pizza, and if that doesn't work, have Max, Iggy, and myself all fake seizures.

D. Take the guy out for ice cream.

I'll give you a hint – the answer isn't in ACDC.

As Iggy, Max, and I carry the pizzas down the hall, I nudge Max with my elbow. She turns to face me, giving me a classic "What the heck?" Max face that looks very similar to a glare, if you aren't used to her expressions.

"Sorry," I say, holding up a single hand in a seemingly no-harm-no-foul manner. However, I position my fingers differently, the ring and index fingers bending while the rest stand straight. Then, I close my hand into a fist quickly before dropping my arm and re-grabbing the pizza boxes, shifting my eyes to glance at the guard for a moment.

You understand what I mean, right?

…

…

Okay, so the English translation of the Max-Fang communication method:

The weird hand symbol with my bent fingers means "threat." The closed fist means "attack," preferably with fists. The glance meant to inform Max of the target.

Max, clearly understanding my language since she helped _create_ it, nods. Keeping up the façade, she replies, "It's fine," gesturing a hand subtly to herself.

Translation: Just me?

I nod almost undiscerningly, staring straight ahead.

_Clip, clop, clip!_

The sound of our feet hitting the white linoleum resonates throughout the empty hallway. Not so much my feet, since I am very experienced in silent maneuvering, but everyone else's is very noisy.

I take a few breaths, and then tap the pizza boxes three times.

Translation: on the count of three.

Which, I should probably tell you means –

"One," Max says aloud.

Then, she drops the pizzas with a _thud_ and leaps at the security guard with a roundhouse kick.

Oh, snap.

No. Literally. The guy's ribs just broke.

One small kick for Max, several giant hurts for security kind.

Max: 1

Macho Clone 3: -1

See, I'm changing the game a bit. Every hit the enemy receives makes him/her lose a point. If Max or any of us receives a blow, no points are lost. It's not really _that_ unfair. It's kind of like taking an SAT. The bad guy is taking the test; if he misses a question by putting an incorrect response, he gets no credit for the question _and_ loses a fraction of a point for guessing wrong. However, Max is like the SAT company; if the company misses a question, nothing happens. A chunk of the company doesn't fall off; a question just doesn't appear on the test. Aren't government-issued tests awesome? This officially concludes my longest Nudge-trail ever. I'm sure half of you lost interest when I began this seemingly-important-but-really-pointless (ha – that's a pun!) thought. Some of you aren't even paying attention to this. You just want to get back to saving Angel. Don't worry – so do I.

Let's continue.

Macho Clone 3 crumples in half from the blow, cradling his fractured ribs with an arm. However, a rather sinister glare appears on his face, aimed at Max.

In a quicker movement than I could _ever_ have expected (but I should have, based on Macho Clone 3's size), MC3 yanks Max's leg forward, causing her to land her back with a big "oof".

Max: 1

MC3: 0

Almost on instinct, my hands slack on the pizza boxes, ready to leap in and sock MC3 in the eye with some genetically-enhanced strength.

However, Max has other plans.

After taking a moment to suck in the oxygen she lost, she sweep-kicks MC3's feet out from under him, causing _him_ to fall on the floor.

Max: 2

MC3: -1

In a blink of an eye, Max sits up. Hesitating none whatsoever, she sucker-punches MC3's injured side. MC3 reflexively curls to the side, trying to protect his wounded side. Max uses his momentum to push his massive body completely over, leaving MC3 on his stomach. She yanks his left arm behind him, twisting it and causing MC3 to moan in agony.

Max: 4

MC3: -3

"Either we can do this the easy way or the Max way. Your choice," Max snarls, twisting his arm further and simultaneously pressing his cheek into the floor with her other hand as she sits on top of him.

"It is my job… to protect and defend… the facility –"

"Whatever," Max says, feigning boredom. "My way it is."

MC3 suddenly finds his head being slammed quite roughly into the linoleum, a sickening "wham" echoing three times before fading into silence.

The poor dude's eyes roll back into his head as he loses consciousness.

Meanwhile, my jaw has uncontrollably dropped to the floor, and Iggy is frozen, his foot slightly suspended in the air from him taking step.

Max opens a pizza box and pulls out something…

Wait…is that pink duct tape?

A very vengeful smile creeps onto Max's face as she pulls out a ribbon of bubble-gum pink duct tape.

"You may not be the one who made my hair pink," Max says eerily.

I flinch mentally for Nudge.

"…but you're a reason why my hair had to be dyed pink in the first place. It's revenge time."

She ties up MC3's wrists and ankles, straps his arms to his torso, and covers his mouth with a third strip. She makes a duct tape target on his chest, makes a fake arrow in the target, and creates a duct tape flower on his face. Across MC3's exposed forehead, Max pens, "My butt was kicked immensely," with a tube of something – eyeliner, I assume.

Max smiles at her handiwork, dusts off her hands, puts the duct tape into the pizza box, and stands up.

She turns to face us, quirking an eyebrow as she sees our states. "What?"

Iggy slowly lowers his foot to the ground. I manage to close my agape mouth.

Iggy whistles lowly.

"Daaaayumm," Iggy says, eyeing Max with new respect.

_My_ brilliant response:

"What the _cranoodle_ was _**that**_?"

I expected Max to beat MC3 up… but I wasn't expecting _**that**_. Not _complete domination_.

"An epic win, that's what," Max replies, smiling proudly and nudging the unconscious guard with her foot.

"Someone probably heard that "epic win" of yours," I reason, trying my logical thinking cap again. "We need to stash the pizzas and this dude, then skedaddle."

"_No they didn't_," a voice sounds out.

"No they didn't what?" I ask.

"What are you saying? I didn't say anything," Iggy says, eyeing me.

"No, no, I'm talking to Nudge. Through the speaker," I reply, listening for Nudge's response.

"_No one heard you guys. The walls of every room are sound proof, and as far as the security monitors know, the hallway is completely deserted. Unless someone was in the hallway, you are clear to go, A-team."_

I manage a small smile at the nickname.

A-team.

The Angel-team.

"Thanks, Nudge," I breathe into the speaker, knowing she will hear me no matter how loud I say it.

I drop my pizza boxes onto the ground and head towards the sleepyhead on the ground.

"Iggy, get rid of those pizzas," I order. "Max and I will get Jorgen Von Strangle, Jr., here," I say, grabbing MC3's shoulders.

"Rodger that," Iggy says, collecting Max's and my boxes.

"There's a closet over there," Max says. "I say we stash Macho Man and lock the door on his derriere."

I give her a smirk. "Is this about the pink hair?"

Max grabs MC3's feet and starts lifting him. "I rock pink better than you rock your color, Mr. Blue Hue."

My smirk falls, and I head towards the closet.

"At least I'm not reminiscent of Barbie," I retort.

Yeah, that wasn't my best comeback ever.

"But you _are_ reminiscent of Dory from _Finding Nemo_," Max replies. "You _are_ turning blue after all. I'm quite prophetic, aren't I?"

A large smirk adorns Max's face.

I scowl in response.

I open the closet door quickly, holding it open with shoulders as I enter. Max enters, and we dump Macho Clone 3 unceremoniously in the corner, next to a mop and bucket. We exit, and I eye Iggy's back.

He's sitting on the ground, pizza boxes around him when they should be headed to the closet.

"Iggy, what _are_ you doing?" Max asks, approaching his crouched figure.

Iggy turns his head to face us.

And he's _eating_ the pizza.

"That's not what I meant, nimrod!" I say, face-palming myself.

"Hey – I'm getting rid of the pizza," Iggy blabs around a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese, but it comes out sounding like, "Hay mm gaimmmmy id oda piiia."

Max smacks the back of his head, causing him to almost choke on his bite.

Iggy raises his head again, coughing, holding the spot where Max smacked him.

"Ouch," he moans, rubbing the spot tenderly.

Then, _I_ smack him across the head.

"Ow! Don't hurt the accomplice! I'm just following orders!" Iggy whines.

"Just stash the freaking pizza," Max says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Iggy sighs heavily but stands up, gathering the boxes. He carries the large stack of lightweight boxes to the closet, throws them in there loudly, and shuts the door, locking it from the outside.

"Ready, captain?" Iggy asks, mock saluting me.

I roll my eyes and walk towards the staircase, remembering the route there from the maps.

"It was a yes or no question, and Fang rolls his eyes. How can he get away with that?" Iggy asks Max in a quiet voice I'm not supposed to hear.

However, the enhanced hearing totally ruins that for Iggy.

"Cuz I'm cool like that," I answer, not looking back, and I lead this rag-tag rescue team down the stairwell.

We're coming, Angel.

* * *

The stairwell ends, and only a door remains between Iggy, Max, and me and the first basement level.

"Are you sure she's this far down? It's awfully dark in there," Iggy says, peering through the door's window.

"I think she's actually a floor below us," I reply, suspicion growing as I monitor the immense dark and quiet.

"Then why –" Iggy starts.

"Because I want to check it out, in case Angel _is_ here," I snap, my nerves fraying more and more with every second I spend down here. I don't want to miss Angel just because I assumed she was in a certain place. Maybe I'm wasting time, but I'll waste more if I skip the level and then have to return later.

"Sorry, bro," Iggy replies, putting his hands in a surrender gesture. "No problem. I want Angel back just as much as you do. You tell me what to do."

My jaw clenches, but I swallow my retort and instead give him a nod of thanks, even if it is a bit stiff.

"_You can't want Angel back more than me, Iggy,"_ I think. "_No one can."_

I push the door open and walk into the dark hallway.

The stairwell door closes behind Max, the last of our group to leave the room, and the sound is incredibly loud in the complete silence. My footsteps, which I pride myself on for their silence, sound like I'm walking on cymbals. Of course, this means Iggy and Max sound like a herd of elephants on a bunch of cymbals, but still. Even our _breathing_ sounds extremely audible.

The only light in the hallway comes from the stairwell, shining through the door's window. The dim illumination reflects on the glass doors and displays the beginnings of some dark hallways branching out – to more labs, I guess.

"God, this feels like a horror movie," Max whispers from behind, swiveling her head in a constant 180.

I do a 360 sweep, feeling beyond edgy.

"Iggy, do you have a match?" I ask.

"Yeah – hold on," he answers, fumbling with his shirt pocket in the dark.

I hear a loud _scratch_, and suddenly our immediate area is illuminated with the match's meager light. Iggy hands the matchstick to me, and I carry it, examining the series of rooms displayed through glass windows. A series of beakers and different fluids sit absolutely still on white counters, which connect to white walls and white floors. Bunsen burners and complicated machines are scattered throughout the rooms, and I can almost smell the disinfectant coming through the door.

"Hey – what's that up ahead?" Max asks, pointing to a dark indentation in the way.

"A hallway, I think," I reply, walking towards it.

Finally, I stand in front of it, and even the match cannot penetrate the deep darkness. I can't see any lines, shapes, colors – anything. It's just a black pit.

"Enter, or no enter?" I ask, trying to quell the fear and the urge to run.

"I could see someone being stashed in a dark, creepy room," Iggy whispers, his face displaying his true uneasy.

I gulp, then nod. "Ok. Let's go."

I walk into the darkness.

The match no longer illuminates more than the space in front of my face. I feel a hand clamp onto my right shoulder and almost spaz out, before I realize it is Iggy's hand, latching to me so as not to get lost.

I tread slowly forward, my flight instinct screaming at me now. "_Danger! Danger!"_ it yells at me.

I hold my arm forward more, hoping to illuminate more darkness.

It doesn't.

I feel another hand clasp my left shoulder, and I twitch before rationalizing that it's either Iggy's other hand or Max's hand.

"God, tell me if you are going to latch on, Max. I almost freaked out on you," I say, trying to laugh through my nerves.

"…I'm not holding onto your shoulder," Max says, her voice farther back. "I'm holding onto Iggy's…"

"Iggy?" I ask nervously. "Are you holding onto me with two hands?"

Iggy doesn't respond.

"…Iggy? This isn't funny," I say calmly, panic spiking on the inside.

The hand on my left shoulder grasps tighter.

I slowly rotate to face the hand.

An almost-white hand is clasped onto my shoulder.

Iggy's pale, but not _that_ pale.

I extend my match out into the darkness.

A face emerges, and two large, glassy white eyes stare at me in greedy hunger.

My stomach drops ten stories.

The thing hisses intensely, rows of ragged teeth bared at me. A metallic gleam reflects from the inside of its mouth.

And I can't help what happens next.

For the first time in my life, I screamed in absolute terror.

Like a little girl.

Yes, you may record it in the record books – while I get my bloody head ripped off by this beast.

I drop the match, my hand shaking in terror.

What the hell _is _this thing?

The match hits the ground, but instead of going out, fire spreads rapidly throughout the room, following water trails throughout the room and engulfing the area in great light.

Only, it's not water – it's some type of fuel – like alcohol or gasoline.

And this beasty is not alone.

The whole room is _full_ of them. A collection of deathly pale humans, wearing hospital gowns. Glassy eyes reflect from every corner, and they all stare in hunger. Hair is deteriorating for some; for others, weird fins and appendages grow from body parts. Various burn marks, scratches, and small holes show on their pale skin, and all have some sort of wristband-IV on their person.

Iggy was not behind me. He's over in the corner, mouth smothered by a white hand. Max is standing farther back, a mere foot from another creature.

They start to close in.

"What _are _these things!" Max shrieks, fright alight in her eyes. "Zombies?"

Then, it hits me.

"No," I say, my tone a higher pitch than normal. "They're not zombies. They're the lab-rats for Velocity's medicines."

They're medicine geeks. M-geeks for short, I guess.

And I'm pretty sure that unless we get out of here soon, we're going to become one of them.

* * *

**This unforgivably short except is brought to you by **_**Dance Without Me**_** by Skylar Grey. It's a kind of creepy song – good for mutant attacks, right?**

**I'm writing more, and I'll update whenever I get another chance!**

**In the meantime, R&R?**


	42. Chapter 42

**Well, I'm back, and ready for another chapter. Yay!**

**I guess everyone is on a summer vacay or something. That's okay…well, either that, or I just made that last chapter horrifyingly awful – so awful, everyone was left speechless. I like to assume the former.**

**My additional comments: I've recently realized that I think Avan Jogia would be a good Fang. I don't know – he looks like I (sort of) imagine Fang. I don't want a list of who's-best-for-who. Just my opinion, though if you agree, gladly say so in a review. *wink wink***

**Also, while handwriting this chapter, my brain must have been stuck on lovely things, because instead of writing an intense action sentence, this came out:**

"**I attack with a flurry of punch, kites, lunches, and sweets."**

**Yeah. Good thing I caught that.**

**Anyway, chapter 42! *sniffles* It's been a long journey, but stick with me until the end!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights go to James Patterson.**

* * *

When in dire situations, a person usually has more than one option for escaping them unharmed.

A classic is the "Run for Your Holy Freaking Life" approach.

Other options include the "Duck and Cover" maneuver (created in the fifties – thank you, Cold War nuclear threats), the "Distract and Run for Your Holy Freaking Life" method (a modification of the original "RfYHFL", implemented often by Scooby Doo and Shaggy), and the "Fight Like Bloody Hell through a Pack of Mutant Lab Rats" (my personal favorite, but I am biased).

Since Max, Iggy, and I are surrounded on all sides by these M-Geeks _and_ fire, the "RfYHFL" method is out. The fire problem knocks out "Duck and Cover" as well. And since I lack a dog that goes "Ruh roh Raggy," I guess we are stuck with the "FLBHtaPoMLR" method.

Whatever works, ya know.

"Anyone want to kick some M-Geek butts?" I shout to Iggy and Max, trying on some false courage in the hopes that some real bravery will emerge.

"M-Geeks?" Max yells back, slapping the nearest M-Geek's hand away from her.

Iggy makes an "Mmm!" noise through the M-Geek's hand that's covering his mouth.

"I'll explain later," I shout back.

I choose that moment to pry my personal M-Geek's hands off my shoulders and punch its nose.

What happens is a bit weird, however.

Instead of the normal "snap!" that usually happens when a human's nose breaks, the M-Geek's nose almost creaks, even though its orientation is now due west. Orange liquid oozes out its nostril, thick and slimy.

Ew.

I might also mention that my hand actually _hurts_; it feels like I punched a sheet of titanium as opposed to human flesh and muscle.

Oh, and it gets better – want to know the _really_ freaky part?

The M-Geek grabs his nose, yanks it to the front with a creak, and turns to stare at me, ferocity in its large, glassy white eyes.

So, of course fate decides it is time for all hell to break loose.

The M-Geeks converge quickly now, distributing evenly amongst the three of us. The advantage quickly becomes twenty to one easily, with the odds worsening every second.

I attack with a flurry of punches, kicks, lunges, and sweeps, trying to knock down this wall of medically-deranged humanoids. For every hit I deliver, one moves away – only for another one to take its place as the previous one recuperates. Orange goo is splattered everywhere, from the M-Geek's hospital-like gowns to my own pizza-delivery clothing. The pungent stench of medicine and decay emanates from the M-Geek's and their goo alike. Nothing registers in the M-Geek's large soulless eyes as they attack and/or receive my blows – no pain, fear, happiness, sadness – except for an almost desperate hunger for revenge.

Like they _need_ to attack something. As if it's a way to deal with some other matter.

The way M-Geeks fight is animalistic; it is so unsimilar to my own street-fighting style that I have trouble defending myself. They claw, tear, and grab feverishly at my arms, legs, face – one even _bit_ me (which I hope doesn't turn me into some flesh-eating demon or something, because I sure love my Snickers).

And they call _me_ Fang.

Another M-Geek lunges at my arm, and I kick his stomach, shoving his desperate fingers away as he bends in half. Suddenly, I feel something touch my jaw, and as my head turns to assess the situation, I feel knives run up the side of my face.

Or rather, _claws_.

I am frozen in shock more than pain as I watch the M-Geek hold up its hand. Its claw-like fingernails drip the crimson red of blood – my blood.

Still, its eyes hold nothing more than ferocity. No satisfaction whatsoever.

The moment flows almost in slow motion…until the rest of the pain hits in a flash.

Franklin Delano, _ow_.

I want to scream in agony. The open air licks my wounds, stinging them as I feel blood trickle down my face steadily.

I don't scream.

I don't cry.

I don't cuss.

I do not fall to the floor and faint (especially not that – the floor is on _fire_, still, and I have yet to discover that I'm flame-proof).

Instead, I channel away the pain, like I learned to do when my mother stabbed me in the leg with a knife or my heart with her words. I let all the agony flow into every pore, dispersing it and ignoring the call the pain tries to make to my central nervous system.

Then, I violently release it in a bout of sheer strength.

I grab the M-Geek's raised arm roughly, practically growling, and I twist it behind his back in one fluent motion. I set my teeth and tug – hard.

My goal: dislocate his shoulder.

_Nooooo_.

The M-Geek's arm rips _completely off_.

I stand there flabbergasted as I hold the M-Geek's human looking arm in my hands. Even the M-Geek seems a bit thrown off, staring at its gaping shoulder cavity oozing orange goo – and electrical wires.

The thing almost looks robotic – metal strips and wires hand inside the hole, but bits of skin and muscle tissue remain attached. It's almost as if someone took a human and inserted a robot _inside_ them.

I almost physically shiver at the thought.

So here I am, holding this human-robot arm, staring at the M-Geek's gaping orange hole.

What do I do?

What anyone else would do.

I swing the arm like a bat and wham the M-Geek's head.

The arm meets the head with a loud _clang_, effectively causing the M-Geek to fall to the floor. A sizable dent is noticeable as the M-Geek hits the floor, unable to catch its fall because it is missing an arm.

Oh, this gets better.

The M-Geek's head catches of _fire_.

Goal: do not land on floor. Do not burst into flames, if possible.

An almost unearthly shriek comes from the fallen humanoid, causing me to wince. The smell of burning flesh is nauseating, and even though the M-Geek was trying to kill me moments before, I almost feel sorry for it. The poor creature didn't choose to become drugged and mutated into a mindless beast.

The scream suddenly cuts off, burnt too severely to live anymore.

I force this mild sympathy to the back of my mind, focusing on my more prominent survival instinct. So, I swing around with my newly acquired bat and slam some more M-Geeks.

The bat acts more effectively than my fists, damage wise. The M-Geeks cannot repair the dents and blows as well. If I hit the backs of their knees, they seem to crumble like…like something than crumbles. A building? I'm a bit too preoccupied to come up with good analogies. Also, if an M-Geek is slammed right on top of the head, they snap, crackle, and split in two.

I am _not_ joking.

However, the bat doesn't help me defend myself very well, and the hands continue to grab and claw, leaving heavy bruises and red scratches.

I swing the bat around at an M-Geek heading towards Max, noticing her swamped situation. The M-Geek I hit crumbles, orange goo exploding from its opened skull. Once it lies on the floor, its foot catches on fire. No scream sounds out – he was gone before he hit the stone pillow. I watch only for a moment in cold satisfaction before resuming my fights.

In between hits and blows I try to check in on Max and Iggy, seeing how they are holding up. Max remains steadily punching, kicking, and blocking, her hair frazzled and speckled with orange goo. Her lip is bleeding, and a few bruises are blooming on her cheekbones, but I can't see if anything more serious is there. Iggy's handling himself well enough; his nose is bleeding and a bit crooked, and he is favoring his right leg over his left, meaning an M-Geek probably broke it, twisted it, or distorted it otherwise. He throws something at M-Geek, and moments later a small boom erupts, forming a small gaping hole in the M-Geek's chest before the machine collapses.

I let a small laugh escape me at the sight - right before my jaw is snatched by a rough hand.

As I turn to handle yet another M-Geek (I'd tell you the Fang vs. M-Geek score, but both sides are quite far in the double digits by now), I feel more hands grab my upper left arm, tugging it backwards until it becomes painful. I try to yank my arm away from the other M-Geek when yet another M-Geek joins the party, this time sticking its claws into my lower back and dragging them upwards as slowly as possible. I bite my lip and focus on removing _one_ of the M-Geeks assaulting me, dropping my arm-bat and trying to punch with my right hand the M-Geek holding my jaw. His face dents with the blow, but his hand remains firmly on my chin. I grab a hold of his arm and desperately try to tug it away.

The claws continue to drag upwards, and I try to kick my rear foe with my left foot. My combat boots make contact with some part of the leg, and I sense the humanoid collapse a bit. Instead of the claws leaving my back, however, they jerk up and to the right - I guess in an attempt for the M-Geek to regain his balance. Pain flares viciously in my back, and I have to bite my lip even harder to hold in a scream. Only a second later, the M-Geek falls onto my back as it topples over.

Since I have one leg off the ground, one arm pulled behind me, and my jaw being jerked to the right, my center of gravity is kaplooey.

As a result, the M-Geeks and I fall to the ground, with myself lying on my stomach. I semi catch the fall with my right arm, letting go of the M-Geek's arm to uselessly try to stop my fall. This is a stupid action, and I now have a throbbing forearm in addition to the fact that I am _still on the floor_.

The other two M-Geeks quickly take advantage of this position, grabbing my legs and arms, and I realize hopelessly that I am not getting off the floor anytime soon.

This kind of fighting is where the M-Geeks excel.

So, I naturally start resorting to their style.

I squirm violently, bucking my body up, down, left, and right in a desperate attempt to shake their firm grips. Eventually, I see an arm appear in my peripheral, and I swing my head towards it and sink my teeth into the flesh.

Let me tell you – this is pretty much the most disgusting thing ever.

It's sort of like biting someone's boil; gross liquids flow out, flesh is in your teeth, and none of it tastes like a Quarter Pounder.

Not to mention the added bonus of some sort of metallic cords being in the flesh.

The M-Geek retracts slightly, hissing furiously. It's honestly the most emotion I've seen out of these creations since I saw them. However, the slight retraction causes the M-Geek's hands to slacken for a millisecond on my arms.

And a millisecond is all I need to get one of my arms out of there.

I whip my arm around in a blur, practically ripping my shoulder out of its socket with the force of it. I grab the M-Geek's neck with my right hand, clenching my fingers tightly around its esophagus. I plan on trying to one-handedly strangle the beast when I eye something near the M-Geek.

A fire patch.

The M-Geek's behind is practically touching it. If I could move it back, just another centimeter, it would catch on fire and make the M-Geek let go of me.

However, it's easier said than done.

I push forward on the neck, feeling my arm and shoulder muscles scream in protest. Sweat falls down my face as I try to shove one hundred and eighty-some pounds of metal and flesh back a centimeter.

"Fang!" I hear Max yell, and involuntarily, I glance up, thinking she needs help.

No, she's looking at _me_, realizing _I_ need help.

However, Max is swarmed with M-Geeks, rapidly switching directions to fight off all attacks. Worry swims in her eyes as she socks another M-Geek in the ribs, causing it to fall over.

I focus back on shoving my M-Geek a mere centimeter with one hand.

"Iggy! Help Fang!" Max yells, panting.

"I'm…working…on it!" Iggy yells, kicking a rather stubborn M-Geek in the back while simultaneously upper cutting another M-Geek's ribs.

God, M-Geek, _move_.

Suddenly, the M-Geek coughs slightly, flinching back from my hand and causing it to scoot back slightly.

But like I said, slightly is enough to work.

The M-Geek catches on fire, letting go of my other arm as it screams in pain, the sound similar to that of a screaming rabbit – not pleasant at all.

However, I join in the screaming a second later as I feel something being pulled out of my back roughly – my wing.

An M-Geek is pulling on my_ wing_.

The tendons and muscles of the wing strain as the M-Geek tries to literally pull the wing from my back, causing me to continue screaming in agony. For those of you without wings, having a wing pulled is similar to someone reaching into your chest and trying to rip your heart out while attacking your stomach with a chainsaw while listening to the Nyan Cat on repeat.

Yeah. It's _that_ bad.

I try to escape, even with the agony in my back. My back is arched feet off the ground, and I seriously want to curl up in a ball and die instead of enduring this any longer.

Then, suddenly the hand disappears.

Gasping, I fall to the floor and pull my wing into my back, wincing as it protests. I squirm roughly and manage to flip onto my back, which _kills_ but is better than a repeat performance of before.

Once I am flipped around, I see Iggy holding the M-Geek by the throat, looking absolutely demonic.

Iggy shoves the M-Geek to the floor, pinning him down. He grabs the M-Geek's upper arm, which sports an IV looking bracelet, and yanks a needle out roughly. The M-Geek flinches, but it's almost as if a light dies inside the M-Geek's eyes. Iggy wastes no time beating the M-Geek senseless, cold hard revenge as his fuel. He finishes by unceremoniously throwing the M-Geek into a fire patch, but by the time it hits the fire, the cold, blank look of death has settled into its eyes.

With that M-Geek gone and another one scorched from earlier, I karate chop the remaining M-Geek and crack his skull open, leaving him dead. Iggy holds out a hand and helps me up. My back throbs painfully, but I have worked through worse.

Iggy and I stack our fists then tap them, an old handshake made up years ago.

"Thanks," I say, truly grateful for his assistance.

"No problem," he replies, and I finally notice a rather nasty looking cut has appeared near his right eye, causing it to swell partially shut. I almost ask him about it, but I figure that if he isn't complaining, neither should I.

I pick up the IV bracelet, holding it up to Iggy. "Why did you take this out?"

"I found out that if you take them out, the things just…die. Like, it's their power source or something. As long as they are on whatever the medicine is, they stay demonic or what-not," Iggy explains, going to my right for a second to snap-kick an M-Geek coming up behind me.

"And you couldn't have shouted that out earlier?" I ask, a bit miffed.

"I was a bit _busy_," Iggy says, sounding annoyed.

At the moment, a question came forward in my mind.

"Well, why did you beat it, then?" I ask, curious.

Iggy gives me a look. "No one tortures you as long as I can help it. I never want to hear you scream like that again."

A beat of silence passes between us. I punch an M-Geek coming at us from the right, then karate chop his head. He goes down.

"Why do those machines just snap when you hit them on the head?" Iggy asks.

"It's a weak point. Other weak points are their shoulders and the back of their knees," I reply.

"And you couldn't have shouted _that_ out?" Iggy asks, mocking me.

"Well," I begin, "I was a bit –"

"_Busy_," Iggy and I say in unison, making both of us smirk.

"I'll go help Max on her batch as long as I can," I say. "You need to get us out of here. We're taking too much damage. Think you can do that?"

"Can I?" Iggy asks, almost insulted. "What a lack of faith!"

I roll my eyes and then leap with a roundhouse kick into the M-Geek mob surrounding Max.

"Thought you could use a hand," I say, pulling out the IV like Iggy said. The M-Geek whirls, then collapses, weakened by the lack of medicine.

"Well, I could use an arm, a leg, and a unicorn, but I'm fine by myself," Max retorts, smashing an M-Geek's head in.

"You know, if you take out the IV, they go down faster," I say, grabbing an M-Geek by the arm and pulling it out. I proceed by karate chopping the top of its head, orange guts spilling everywhere. "This works, too."

"Their necks are flimsy if you hit the pressure points," Max says, snapping a punch to an M-Geek's head and causing its head to bend unnaturally horizontal. It continues to struggle, even as it faces the wrong direction. I sweep kick the back of its knees and it crumbles to the ground.

We go back to back for a bit, fighting off the seemingly never-ending amount of M-Geeks. A minute or so later, I feel a punch coming (almost like a sixth sense) and turn around, catching the fist in mid-air and feeling all bad-ass.

It's at that point that I see the fist is Max's.

"My bad," she mumbles as I raise my eyebrow. She proceeds to punch an M-Geek over my left shoulder with her other hand. She looks back at me. "You can let go of my hand now."

I smirk. "What if I don't want to?"

Max rolls her eyes, but smirks as well. "Fang, now is not the time –"

"GET BACK!" Iggy yells, running towards us like a bat out of Hell.

"Wha –" Max begins, but I tug her and pull her farther back, running.

"Iggy's gonna get us out of here," I say, sprinting as fast as possible through a pack of M-Geeks, punching as I go.

"But why are we running –"

_BOOM!_

The sound of the bomb exploding rings in my ears, and the sonic blast almost knocks me down. The smoke clears a few moments later, and a gaping hole can be seen in the once solid stone wall. A few unfortunately positioned M-Geeks lay on the ground, scorched, but the rest seemed to have faired well enough, like we did.

I pull Max towards the hole now, Iggy leading the way. We are almost to the hole, the M-Geeks farther back because they are slower, when I notice something fizzing around. It almost looks like a sparkler or something.

"Hey, Iggy," I say, slowing down. "What's that?"

I point to the sparkler-thing.

Iggy studies it for a second and then fear enters his eyes.

Uh-oh.

"Run," he says, "RUN RUN RUN –"

_BOOM!_

This time, the blast is too close to us. I feel myself fly backwards, landing on the right side of my back and skidding to a halt. The breath is knocked right out of me, and it's all I can do to just lay there in shock.

This time, it takes a few moments just to register what just happened and what is going on. I feel pain tingling on my arms and back, but it's almost dancing, racing up my skin with such heat –

Oh, crap.

"Get up!" I shout, trying to get off the ground. "Iggy, Max, we need to get up!"

Max groans, holding her arm.

I go over and try to tug her up. "Get up! We're on _fire_!"

That wakes Max up.

Iggy is already standing, frantically patting the fire away. I'd say stop, drop, and roll, but there's no room to. In a haste, I grab a nearby M-Geek's body (which is _not _burned or on fire) and rip off the gown (carefully avoiding looking at its mutated body), using the gown as a smother.

Finally, all of us are fire free, even if we are still burnt. The back of right my arm and my right side are burnt, the fabric of my destroyed T-shirt irritating the wounds. Max's left elbow and the side of her left leg are burnt, due to her landing on her left side. Iggy has the worst burns, with his left shoulder and the left side of his face burnt (mostly on his cheeks, but some hair is singed).

"What was _THAT?_" Max yells, furious.

"The bomb didn't go off completely," Iggy explains, apologizing in a way. "Part of it had a delayed detonation."

Several M-Geeks remain around us, either scorched or still too flabbergasted to go after us yet. However, the remaining M-Geeks in the back start closing in on us.

"Let's go," I say, leaping into the black hole in the wall.

Max follows and then Iggy does, throwing a round object into the mass of M-Geeks.

A _boom_ resonates, and the M-Geeks go up in flames.

Iggy and I high five.

I don't need to see Max's face to know she is rolling her eyes.

We walk forward in the darkness, all light from the previous room gone. This time, we hold onto each other's shoulders in a chain from the start.

Eventually, my hand comes in contact with a solid wall.

"What's this?" I ask myself aloud, feeling the smooth texture. Feels like stone.

I reach my hands to the sides, and I am surprised to feel walls on either side of us as well.

"We're in some sort of crevice," I say, facing toward Max and Iggy (or where they are supposed to be, I guess). "I don't know what to do from here –"

This is when the floor caves in.

Or collapses. Or is just no longer under our feet. Whatever you want to call it.

There is no thinking or leaping or moving. We just fall, straight down, into a pit of blackness.

I try to open my wings, to catch my fall and maybe save the others. But as soon as I try to extend my wing, it screams in protest, and I know that if I try to whip it out, I'll break something for sure.

Not to mention I could never save both Max and Iggy at the same time.

So I do the human thing and fall down, hoping to not break too many bones when I land.

The landing comes only five or six seconds after we fall, and we land with a thud. I land on my front, somewhat catching myself with my arms, but not well enough to stop my head from hitting the stone very roughly.

My vision immediately starts fading (though it's hard to tell in this blackness), when someone enters the room. I hear his or her footsteps on the stone, and a faint light emerges, casting the person's shadow.

It's a tall man, and he stops a few feet into the doorway, tapping his foot.

"You shouldn't have come, boy," he says, standing there staring.

It's at this point that I black out.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Break**_** by Three Days Grace.**

**Please, por favor, if you love Fang, Angel, or cheese, R&R?**


	43. Chapter 43

**So, update anyone? Yes.**

**Another chapter for ShadowDiving. Chapter 43!**

**For anyone who did not read the author's note this chapter is replacing or for those who didn't get to read the note, I am thinking about including all my reviewer's usernames (cleverly, of course) into the Epilogue for ShadowDiving! Yay or nay? For example, (just because this person is just an awesome reviewer), I might stick at the end of a witty dialogue, "Well, jealous minds think alike." Understood? Tell me what you think.**

**Well, you don't really want to read this. You want a chapter! So here it is.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights go to James Patterson.**

* * *

When I wake up, I am not sure I'm awake at all.

Complete darkness remains around me, no trace of light anywhere. I can feel damp, hard ground beneath my body, the moisture cooling my sore and exhausted body. As soon as my eyes are open, I want to immediately close them again, if only to escape this total defeat sitting like an elephant on my chest.

It's at this point that I comprehend the sound of breathing next to me. Two deep breathing patterns echo in the dark, cavernous room (I assume it's a room, anyway) – Max's and Iggy's. Out of instinct, I listen for a smaller, faster breathing pattern, a rhythm only a seven-year-old could hold in sleep.

When I don't hear it, reality rushes back to me in double time.

I force my eyes open now, realizing where I am, how I came to be here, and why I'm here.

Angel.

I sit up slowly, feeling parts of my body protest while my right side swells with heat from the burns. I rub my eyes, trying to rid my system of sleep. I let my wings relax out of my back, wincing as my right wing extends. Awkwardly I reach around to my back and rub the base of my wings, trying to reduce the stiffness of the tendons. It doesn't really work, but it's better than nothing.

Max and Iggy remain unconscious next to me, as indicated by their deep, slumber-like breathing.

I stare ahead, my eyes semi-adjusting to the complete darkness. Above, a sliver of light casts a blue-ish glow over us, and I can make out the cracks in the stone floor. I still cannot make out a doorway, so I continue to be stationary.

Against my will, my thoughts travel to Angel. Worry, frustration, and anxiety swirls like a hurricane inside my mind, and I wish desperately that I could will myself out of this room – will myself to Angel. Is she hurt? Have they experimented on her? Or is my father still deceiving her, planning some wicked scheme for the future?

This unknown is beyond infuriating, and it almost kills me to not know what's happened to Angel.

My baby Angel. The little sister I have raised since her birth. The little girl that I've given everything for, and would give it all over again just to keep her safe and well. The little angel that I haven't done enough for; otherwise she wouldn't be here, with my madman of a father.

She'd be with me. I don't know where we'd be, but anywhere would be better than here. Here, where my father made the decisions that ruined my life forever. Here, that made my mother a victim to drugs. Here, where I was ordered to have wings. Here, an institution that turned human test subjects into monsters for security.

I feel like I'm on the brink of devastation – standing in the wake of the unknown.

For once, I feel so defeated. I don't know how to escape. I don't know where Angel is. I don't know how to win.

But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting Angel.

She's the world – the only one I've still got.

And I'll never give up on it – never let it go.

I stand up.

At this height, the light filters in differently. I can't make out the floor so well, but I can see the walls. And in the wall in front of me, an infinitesimal outline of a door is illuminated.

Our escape route.

There's no doorknob. There's no lock. There's nothing, really, but a door. No usual way to get out.

Doesn't matter.

I back up, feeling this fire spread inside of me. A strength – no, a _determination_ – so strong that it erases all the sadness and frustration, forces me to let it go.

I'm done with this shit.

It's my time.

I sprint towards the door, running as swiftly as if I would take off into the sky. My black wings extend fully behind me, streamlined for take-off. My jaw sets, and the door whips closer every second.

And right before I run into the door, I leap into the air, launching my feet forward into the door's sturdy frame.

My adrenaline is so overwhelming; I don't even feel my feet connect with the door.

It's the _crack_ of the door snapping in half that alerts me of my victory.

The material caves in from the force of my kick, showering wood everywhere into the open hallway. Light pours into the room, illuminating the now awake forms of Iggy and Max. I land roughly in the hallway, my wings flapping behind me to steady my balance. Iggy and Max slowly stand, staring at me and the gaping hole I created.

It's not until now that I fully see how haggard we all look. My clothing is shredded and dirt-incrusted, and my hair is plastered to my face from the massive amount of sweat I've produced. Orange goo is dried all over, and my normal tan coloring has given way to a collage of purples, reds, and blues. Max and Iggy resemble me, sporting various injuries that both mirror and differ from mine.

Overall, we look like a group of rouge hobos who decided to raid a wealthy institution for food.

Max reaches me first, and Iggy is close behind. Both study my face, though for what, I have no idea.

I'm even more perplexed when Max grins broadly at me.

"What?" I ask, my voice a bit rough from all the screaming I've done recently.

Max continues to smile. "It's back," she says.

"What's back?" I question.

She stares right into my eyes. "That fire. That I-don't-care-who-the-hell-you-are-you're-going-down determination. The passion that has been slipping since I before found out about your life. The I-don't-take-shit-from-anyone Fang that I used to always see. The Fang that would go home, fight off his mother, patch himself, and then take Angel to school and banter with me. The Fang that thought he was invincible, so he became invincible."

I can only stand there, flabbergasted. Have I really been slipping? Have I been life slowly taking advantage of me without fighting back fully?

God, I've been a wimp.

Iggy slaps my shoulder, grinning also. "Welcome back, Fang."

And I feel it, this renewed energy settling in to its old home. All doubt is gone.

I'm Fang, and I'm here to rescue his little sister and end this.

Once and for all.

I turn to study the hallway, wondering which way to go from here. Someone would have heard that door crack, so we need to get our butts in gear.

"Left," I say, beginning to walk down the hallway in that direction, folding in my wings simultaneously.

"Yep, that's Fang," Max says to Iggy as they join me. "We give him some heart-warming, confidence-boosting pep-talk, and he just says to go left."

I feel a laugh bubble inside me, but I suppress it and let a smirk settle on my face.

"Fang's above normal humanoid communication methods, like talking," Iggy retorts. "He prefers to communicate in his native tongue – fish."

I smack Iggy over the top of his head, causing him to trip and stumble. Max cracks up, and I can't help but let a small grin settle on my face.

Don't blame me – blame the confidence high.

We continue down the hallway in silence, moving swiftly. Farther down the hallway, we hear voices echo off the walls from around the corner, and we leap into the first available unlocked door, which luckily for us was only two doors away.

We shut the door quietly, and I press my ear to the door, since I have the best hearing.

The voices drift closer, the words become clearer as the people unknowingly approach us.

"Well, Dr. Sharthal, what level of the game have you gotten to?" a voice calls out.

Dr. Sharthal…that sounds familiar…

"I'm on level twenty-two, now," Dr. Sharthal replies smugly, "which means I get to face the fox-human hybrids now with some bazookas. Sci-guy to the max!"

Sci-guy…wait a second.

…_NO._

It's Bald, Old, and Evil! From Itex!

I can't help my smirk.

He's _still_ playing that weird-ass game.

While simultaneously listening to BOE and the other dude go on and on about the game, I hear Iggy mutter to Max, "The way Fang's smirking over there, you'd think he'd be listening to porn as opposed to scientific mumbo-jumbo."

When I hear Iggy _oof_, I know Max has taken care of it.

"You are a deeply disturbed child, Iggy," Max mutters.

"Thank you," Iggy replies, and I see him bow out of the corner of my eye.

I focus back on the fading words of BOE and his partner, the sounds becoming lesser until silence settles in the corridor. I can only hear the quiet banter between Max and Iggy.

I leave the door, ready to break it apart, when another sound hits my ears.

I lean back at the door, pressing my ear to the wood, but I hear no sound coming from the hallway. Where, then?

I dart over to a side wall, pressing my ear against the white material. The sound increases, and different words are exchanged than BOE's.

A man is laughing, his deep rumbling easy to discern. Some words are exchanged, but I can't understand them through the drywall. Someone speaks louder, in a sort of contradiction, and I recognize the man's voice.

My father's.

I tense in reflex, my hand subconsciously curling into a fist. I listen to him drone about something, and the other men chip in here and there. My dad says something softer, and then I hear another familiar sound – a laugh. A high pitched laugh that embodies cute in the sound alone, a laugh that belongs to the only little girl I know.

Angel.

My heart speeds up double time.

Angel – _my_ Angel, in the room next door.

Laughing?

I'm a bit bamboozled, but my own relief swallows the confusion whole.

_Angel_.

"Angel's next door," I announce to the room, snapping Iggy and Max out of their banter.

"_What_?" Max whisper-screams, excitement gleaming in her eyes. "Really?"

Iggy grins. "Target acquired."

We quietly exit the room, checking that the corridor is clear before emerging. We walk to the next room, standing in front of the door I'm sure is locked.

I pause, contemplating, readying myself. My resolve, my purpose, sits behind that door. However, so does the bane of my existence, along with a few other men. This is it. Once I enter, there is no going back. I either succeed, or… or nothing. I have to win.

I cannot _not_ win.

With this decision set in stone, I twist the doorknob.

It doesn't move much – just jiggles. It's locked, as I thought it would be.

Oh well.

Plan B.

_Knock, knock, knock_.

Yes, I really _am_ knocking on the door to get in.

I know, how anticlimactic.

I'm out of dramatic entrances for right now.

It takes a few moments, but finally I hear a lock being undone and the door opens to show a middle-aged man with a blue business suit, once brown hair giving way to grey, and a beard situated on his chin.

AKA, not my father.

Although I do not know who he is, that's okay – he doesn't recognize me either. The blue hair, orange goo-splattered clothing, and scowling face are not so average, it appears.

"Who are you?" he questions with suspicion (as he should), pushing the door open wider so the rest of audience inside can examine Max, Iggy, and me.

"Ghostbusters," I say, peering over his shoulder to look at the others in the room. Another older man stands farther back, similarly clad in a business suit, but sporting completely white hair and no facial hair. Next to him, my father smiles, wearing the pinstripe suit I had once though he had died in. All the stains are gone, now. He sports his classic red glasses, and his hair is impeccably dark brown, no strands of grey visible. His blue eyes stare at me in excitement, as if he could show a new toy to someone else now. Which, you know, leaves me a bit confused.

However, it's not any of the men that catch my attention long.

It's the little girl standing next to my father, holding his hand, with the bright blonde curly hair and the innocent, wide blue eyes. She's perfectly clean and dressed nicely, wearing a poofy blue dress that I've never seen before (nor could I ever afford it), and with her other arm she clutches Celeste, her childhood teddy bear that is still adorning an angel costume.

Angel looks at me, and my mind screams, "_Angel!"_ My brain tells my body to leap forward and grab her in an embrace, to make sure she is safe and okay.

But I stay where I am, trying to remove the nausea caused by Angel not running to me. Not letting go of my father's hand.

Not looking like she cared at all that I came.

It's like someone zapped me with electricity. I just assumed…I mean, how could she want…

Middle Aged Numero Uno interrupts my internal panic attack.

"Now, I don't know how you got in here," he rants, looking annoyed, "but you are promptly leaving, and if you do not willingly comply I will call security –"

I infinitesimally jester to him with my head.

And like the bad-ass team we are, Max grabs Middle Aged Numero Uno in a headlock before he can say "spumoni" and Iggy disables Middle Aged Numero Dos similarly.

I kick the door closed after I enter, my eyes remaining on Angel.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," my father tells me, eyeing me. "You took quite a tumble to get here, didn't you?"

"What…is going…on?" MAN Uno struggles out, looking at my father for answers.

"It is fine, Gregory," my father answers, a smugness in his voice that makes me want to throttle him…even more than normal. "This is my son – Fang."

"I am _not_ your son," I growl out, fury enveloping me.

"According to genetics, you are, Fang," my father retorts, smirking.

"Damn genetics!" I burst out, shocking my father a little, even, though he doesn't let his smug exterior falter. Like me, he has mastered a terrific mask.

An actor at his best.

"Language, Nicholas," my father pretends to scold, gesturing to Angel. "There _are _young children present."

"I wouldn't call Angel young," I say, sneering. "Not after everything she's been through. Everything you might have put her through."

"What _I_ put her through?" he asks, trying to appear innocent. "I haven't harmed a hair on her head. I've only helped her advance what she already had."

My nostrils flare at this bit of news.

My father has tested on her.

But what exactly has he enhanced? What has he done to my Angel?

My head snaps to Angel as she tugs on my father's sleeve, whispering something in his ear.

"Oh, of course. Silly me," he says to her. Then, he faces me. "I'm sure you want to know what exactly done to Angel."

No _shit_, Sherlock.

Angel whispers in my father's ear again.

"Really, Fang, you have developed quite a vulgar vocabulary. Have you no decency to be less foul-mouthed around your little sister?"

Wait…what? I didn't say anything out loud.

Angel whispers again.

What is going on?

"Well, you see, Fang," my father says, acting as if he having to explain to a five-year-old, "I've given Angel a bit of a…growth stimulant. Like steroids, only for the mind."

My father clears his throat and continues, and it takes everything I have to stand still and not strangle him right then and there.

More whispering.

"You are really violent, aren't you?" my father asks, and I find myself more confused. I haven't expressed or shown any of my violent desires. He acts like he is responding to my mind's responses rather than my verbal ones.

How can he…?

More whispering.

My eyes hone in on Angel.

No.

_No_.

_NO_.

He couldn't…she couldn't…

Angel smiles. "Yes, Fang."

I hear Iggy's words from far away, even though he is very close to me. "Anyone else not understanding what the… the…oh, what the hell - _hell_, is happening?"

No.

_Nooooo_.

I glare at my father in pure hatred. How could he have done this? Mutated the only innocence that I had left in this world?

"…Whatever it is, it's bad," Max replies, watching the match-off between my smiling father and glaring me.

Angel whispers the words in his ear again.

"Oh, I didn't do it, Fang," my father says, trying to act like he _isn't_ a bastard at all. "Well…I technically didn't. I just gave the orders. But not here – this happened all the way back in winter, when Angel visited Velocity's Itex headquarters."

…This happened all the way back at Itex? But…Angel never said…

"I didn't want to tell you, nor could I," Angel responds to my thoughts. "I didn't get then that the voices I was hearing were coming from people's heads. I didn't get that I was reading minds."

There it is. Out in the open.

Angel could read minds.

And she has been able to since she first was captured months ago.

I hear a couple _What the fuck?'s_ in the background.

"And once I did know, how could I tell you? You're always so ashamed about your own mutations. I didn't want to hear the shame in your voice or in your head."

I feel like someone punched me in the stomach.

"No. _No_," I stutter out, trying to work past the rapid _Whaaaa?'s _ circling in my brain. "I could _never_ be ashamed of you, Angel. This isn't your fault. It's…theirs. The people who work at Itex. At Velocity. Our _father_."

I spit out the word "father", the word leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

"You can't blame anyone, Fang," Angel says, a cold look in her eyes as she stares me down. "Especially not Daddy. This is all _your_ fault. And I know you know it. I can hear it repeating in your head."

I can't even respond.

"You would have tried to stop me from using it," Angel continues. "You would have tried to make me control it, not use it. Daddy lets me use it when I want. He _encourages_ me to use it. He's _proud _of me for my skill."

"I'm proud of you, Ange," I say, desperate for her to believe me.

"Then let me stay here. Let me be with Daddy. Where I _want_ to be."

Ice settles in my vein.

_Daddy_.

The word alone has a connotation of snakes, demons, and very dark things – in this scenario.

As my heart drops to my stomach, my entire body practically vibrates with fury. I've never hated anyone more in my life. My father has corrupted Angel into this. This is _his_ fault.

I'm going to _murder _him.

"Take it out," I say in an icy tone. "Take it out right now. Whatever it is that is in Angel, remove it _now_."

"What do you mean?" my father taunts, removing a clear injection tube from his jacket and shaking it for me to see. "This? It'll wear off soon enough. Another dose, perhaps, for right now."

He sticks a needle insert into the tube.

No.

Something resembling a hawk-like screech emits from my throat, a sound I didn't even know I could make, as unbelievable anger takes over. The whole room freezes in fear as I lunge at my father in murderous rage, aiming to decapitate him.

"DON'T YOU DARE HURT DADDY!"

Suddenly, I'm on my knees, clutching my head in agony. Something is piercing my brain with a thousand swords, screeches and crazy fast images spinning through my head. Without my permission, I feel myself start slamming my head against the floor, as if someone is making me a marionette.

Angel.

"Fang!" Max yells from far away, a thump resonating as a body hits the floor. I assume she's knocked MAN Uno out, now, and she approaches me as I squirm on the ground in agony, clutching my head.

I soon hear her scream, falling next to me and clutching her head as Angel spreads her rage inside Max's mind.

My father laughs as I try to fight away the thousand ideas, voices, and actions Angel shoves inside my head. However, it's like trying to scare away a thousand snakes with only a matchstick.

I once thought I was always safe inside my head.

I guess not.

A loud noise sounds from outside my mental battle, barely registering. A high pitched shriek emits, and a voice calls out to me.

"Shove it out, Fang! Think of something so strong, she can't shove any ideas past it. Build a brick wall of memories in your head!"

I can't recognize the voice, but I follow the instructions anyway.

Anything to stop Angel.

I force myself to think back to when Angel and I lived at home – the home that burned down. The home that yes, my drugged mother came home to often to beat me. But I think beyond that. I remember Angel and I watching Scooby Doo on our ratty couch, eating Spaghetti-O's and rice. I remember Angel drawing me a picture of us, wings behind both our backs. I remember Angel telling me in the park how she wished she could fly, so she could fly up to Heaven and tell the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause to help me out. I remember laughing as Angel stuck Fruit Loops into her nose, ears, and mouth. I remember Angel learning to walk by herself as I taught her. I remember her first word – "Dadda," she'd said, looking right at _me_.

Angel and I running around the park.

Angel and I flying in the sky.

Angel and I eating a pretzel on the street.

Angel fixing my wounds after Mom beat me up.

Angel running to me when she had a nightmare.

The fear and sadness I felt as the Flyboys stole Angel from me. The defensiveness I felt whenever Mom had the possibility of hurting Angel. The determination I felt as I made sure Angel never felt a blow.

Angel.

Angel.

_Angel_.

Suddenly, all the ideas and voices are gone. It's like a wall formed around my brain, shoving all the foreign tentacles away. My mind swarms with memories of Angel and I, and I stand up, renewed.

Angel is on the ground, now, holding her head. Max sits up, looking dazed as she releases her skull from a death grip.

Angel –

"No, Fang! Keep thinking. This time you're destroying the evil wall the medicine formed around _her_ mind. Keep up the memories!" a voice calls.

I let my mind continue flipping through the memories, good and bad, happy and sad. I try to project them across the room, even as it hurts me to see Angel in so much pain.

"_I'm causing this pain_," my subconscious tries to interject.

It's necessary. A necessary evil.

Finally, my brain is running out, starting to repeat the memories. I try to project the biggest idea I have.

I let her see my inner-most emotions.

"_I love you, Angel,"_ I scream with my mind. "_I love you, and I always will. I'll give everything for you. I'll never give up. You are everything to me._"

Angel screams audibly.

The room is still.

No one dares breathe, not even the mysterious voice I haven't seen yet.

Angel's hands drop from her skull. She pants heavily, as if she just ran the Boston Marathon. Her head hangs down, her eyes obscured from view by her thick hair.

Everything is silent.

Angel looks up, staring at me with exhausted eyes.

I wait tautly.

"Fang…," Angel sighs out, looking weary.

And that's when I know I've won.

I run to Angel and hold her collapsing form in my arms, burying my face in her curls, feeling tears race down my face.

"Oh my God, Angel," I say to her, emotionally unbalanced in this extreme happiness. "I'm so, so sorry, Angel. Oh my God…"

"I love you, Fang," she whispers, sounding ancient from exhaustion. "Forever and always."

My baby is back.

I don't bother to wipe the tears from my face as I look up, searching the room for the mysterious voice.

My father holds someone in a headlock, seeming to struggle as the person squirms. My father also looks furious as he stares at Angel's and I's forms, like this is beyond unbelievable.

What is beyond unbelievable is who my father holds in his grip.

"Ari," I say, looking at the boy who's grown too much in too little time. He is half morphed, trying to escape my father's grip. But the eyes are the same – the same eyes Jeb has.

Max's half-brother is in the room, and she doesn't even know.

Ari offers a half-smile. "Hey," he says, squirming still. "Long time, no see."

I say with my eyes what I can't say with words. _Thank you. Thank you so much, you amazing boy._

I can tell Ari understands when he smiles at me.

Angel falls limp in my arms, unconscious finally as exhaustion overtakes her completely.

My father growls animalistically, shoving Ari to the floor in strength he shouldn't have.

"That's it!" he shrieks, red literally filling his eyes. "I end you right now! You won't intervene with my experiments ANYMORE!"

When he starts to grow hair rapidly and fangs produce out of his mouth, I realize my father is not entirely human like I thought he was.

Golden hair rings his face and claws extend from his fingertips. He grows taller and buffer and a familiar facial structure appears on his face.

My dad is part lion.

But it's not until he leaps at me, claws aimed from my throat, that I realize that I should probably try to save myself from dying.

* * *

**And…this chapter is dedicated to**_** Iridescent**_** by Linkin Park!**

**Long, LONG chapter. Good? Bad? Need more?**

**I kept using phrases from the song. It's just so good.**

_Do you feel cold and lost in desperation?_

_You build up hope, but failure's all you've known._

_Remember all the sadness and frustration_

_And let it go._

_Let it go._

**Ah. Such a good song. Theme song for the story, really.**

**Anyway, more to come still! And what better way to ensure an update this weekend than to:**

**R&R!**


	44. Chapter 44

**Hello. Again.**

**So, I'm a liar. Yep, I'm admitting the problem – that the first step towards recovery, right? I told you an update would be last weekend…and now it's a weekend past and you never received an update. This is entirely my fault and my ability not to predict the future and stop time. Because of my failure at being superhuman, I have only aided my lying-to-readers problem. Shame on me.**

**In all seriousness, I honestly did mean to update, but I ended up dog-sitting for a neighbor that had no available computer or Internet access (curse my lack of a laptop!), and I feel miserably ill with a cold (I know - woe is me), and I honestly didn't feel up to anything. Beyond that, I've had massive amounts of Homework Mountains to climb, and there literally was no time to type this up.**

**I've been brainstorming in the dull periods of school, though, so I have a direction to go in for this chapter…I hope. I'm still indecisive. Let's see where this takes me.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights fall to the overlord that is James Patterson. Yeppers. However, I own the right of the term "Homework Mountain" and I am an official guide (with my official Homework Mountain goat to handily eat up the homework behind me)!**

* * *

_But it's not until he leaps at me, claws aimed from my throat, that I realize that I should probably try to save myself from dying._

I act quickly, grabbing Angel's unconscious form and transporting her to the side. I rapidly set her down before I spin to catch an armful of claw from my father. Crimson pours down my arm and the wound burns as the air rubs the ripped skin, but I ignore it. I take advantage of the close proximity of my father's arm by grabbing his wrist and using it to twist his arm backwards. He rotates his body to accommodate the movement, but his reaction time is not swift enough to prevent total pain; I can tell because he grits his teeth and growls almost inaudibly. I snap-kick my leg horizontally to his hip, causing him to crumble in half.

"_This is too easy,"_ my subconscious warns.

And it is a wise thing indeed, for only a second later my father head-butts my exposed abdomen, which results in me falling backwards onto my derriere.

Though it is not so simple, remember that I am not alone here; Max and Iggy are aware and alive, and I notice them approach from my peripheral, though Iggy knocks out MAN Dos first before approaching.

Not to mention Ari.

All three converge on the little one-on-one my father and I are competing in. I block another punch, and then I try to swing a punch from the side to hit him in the face, but he grabs my fist faster than I anticipated and uppercuts my jaw. I feel my teeth slam together roughly as the shockwave travels through my head, leaving my head throbbing.

Good thing this will be over soon.

I manage to punch with my other hand, hitting my father's left eye, and I enjoy the purple that is already blooming around the socket.

To my left, Max screams out an "Aiyee!" as she roundhouse kicks my father.

And because nothing in my life is normal, the kick doesn't hit my father.

No, it hits a _clone_ of my father.

Go ahead, re-read the above statement. Take some time to chew it over with Twix. Ponder how this could happen or why you/I didn't see it coming.

Basically, do everything I don't have time to do right now.

It was sort of creepy; my father kind of shivered, and then a ghost-like apparition just sprang from his back. I am lacking the correct scientific terms and principles to accurately describe this phenomenon, but the ghost-thing materialized and solidified into an exact replica of my father, grabbing Max's leg and using it to spin her entire body around and caused her to land face down on the ground.

This is admittedly pretty BA, and I mentally note the technique used, but it's not really helping my case any.

More shivers occur, and I can manage only to stare dumbfounded as he creates six, seven…eleven clones.

Dread settles into my stomach as twelve versions of my father give me a vicious grin.

Cra-noodle.

Nine of them branch of to Ari, Iggy, and Max – three apiece. Three remain for me to fend off.

Three evil mutated versions of the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz.

The original one swipes a paw of claws at my stomach, which I dodge by contracting backwards. Clone 1 tries to sweep kick my feet, but I jump into the air and his feet pass harmlessly below me. Clone 2 darts left and tries to attack my back, but I duck down and his hand passes over my head. A fist comes into view, and it's all I can do to dodge it.

Actually, it's all I can do to avoid all three of my attackers – I can't even spare time to make an offensive move. I know nothing of how Max, Iggy, and Ari are doing because I can't avert my eyes even slightly.

Trying to track my original father is like the game with the three cups and one pebble; it takes intense concentration to never lose sight of the blue cup with the small, black rock underneath. However, I know that my diligent eyes are essential. If I confuse the clones up, I won't be able to determine which one can create more clones and replenish the fallen – and I need to know which one needs to absolutely be taken down.

He's never going to touch a hair on Angel's head again.

I sweep, duck, block, and bend my body in awkward, Twister-like positions to dodge the three on-coming attacks. Once, while bending backwards, I accidentally slam Clone 2 in the face with my skull, but beyond that, I score no hits.

It's in the midst of this chaos that I have an epiphany.

I'm a winged mutant. That can turn _invisible_.

Why the Hell have I not been using this?

Focusing internally, I picture my body disappearing, which is what I've used to turn invisible in the past.

Though I can't physically feel the change, the shocked looks that are mirrored on three of my father's mutated faces tell me that I have succeeded.

Wa-cham.

Taking advantage of their momentary confusion, I uppercut Clone 1's ribs, feeling some of them crack under my unforgiving knuckles. Without hesitation, I snap-kick Clone 2's knees, causing him to crumble to the ground.

For the grand finale, I sucker-punch my father – the original, that is – in the nose, hearing it crunch and seeing the vivid red blood spill over his furry, golden-haired muzzle.

They recover quickly – I'll give them that much credit – and begin to attack the area where I reside (which, since they've formed a sort of triangle around me, is right in the middle). I still have to dodge the attempts, but since they are guessing my displacement and position, about half of the hits are completely off base and I can move without having to protect myself.

My true advantage comes from my offense. When I strike, my father and the two clones cannot see where I'm coming from, who I'm attacking, or what I am doing, so I can always hit the mark.

Like a ninja I strike.

Yes, go ahead and laugh, for even I am smiling on the inside.

I focus in on Clone 1, aiming to remove an opponent.

I swing my arm around from the right, hitting him in the cheek. His face whips to the left, spit projecting out of his mouth. Without hesitation, I follow with an uppercut to his stomach, causing him to bend in half. I snap kick his knees, and he crumbles to the ground in agony. I slam my fists into his skull, feeling the frustration build instead of decline as it normally will. With a final deft punch, I K-O him, leaving him lying the ground.

And then the cool thing happens.

The clone just _disappears_ into thin air.

I whip around, ready to take down my father (since I reason that the clones will disappear if I take out the ringleader), when I realize that my father and his clone are not standing where they once were. They've changed positions, and – the more problematic situation – they've possibly switched places. This means I may not be eliminating whom I need to.

I sort of eenie-meenie-minie-mo between the two and chose to attack the one closest to my left, hoping to uppercut his jaw –

A piercing scream stops my arm short, and against my will my eyes are drawn to the source.

Over in the left corner of the room, Ari is fighting his three clones. However, two must have been knocked out because they are no longer visible (AKA they no longer exist). The third and final clone is covering his ears in agony, cringing towards the ground. Blood lies scattered on the floor, and although Ari has a good amount of oozing injuries, I can deduce that the majority of the carnage comes from the clones.

Ari is half-morphed, still, but I realize with shock that maybe he's not half-morphed as much as he is permanently affected from the transformations. This may be his permanent appearance. My heart pangs in sympathy as I acknowledge how scarred this little ten-going-on-eleven year old boy is – hard traumatic his life has been. He's never met his sister and brother. He's never met his mother – whether she is Dr. M or some random woman. He's known no life outside experimentation labs, mutant partners, evil scientists, and savage search-and-capture missions. Now, he's only ten and he's forever half-morphed, with the hairy appearance, gangly limbs, and sort of snarl on his face.

He doesn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of this.

None of us experiments did. No one in the world deserves this.

Which is why it's so important to take down my father – sure, he's ruined my life and betrayed me beyond forgiveness, but his vanity and self-desires have destroyed the lives of thousands – maybe millions. Nothing good can ever come from his mind or body.

My father and his clone both turn to Ari's scene, and the one on the left glares in hatred.

That's him – my father.

I leap at my father, but he darts away, growling and snarling. I land awkwardly, confused. I make considerable noise on my landing, and Clone 2 snaps his head in my direction, pouncing towards me based on the sound's location. I nimbly dodge the charge, but my focus remains on my father's questionable behavior.

He didn't hear me – so why did he run away?

I stand and watch for moments the scene around me. Max has removed one clone, but her face is pouring sweat and her eyes discretely display her exhaustion. Just glancing at her weary figure, I feel my own exhaustion swell like a tsunami inside me. My lack of energy is from the trying adventure and fighting, yes, but I forgot how exhausting being invisible was. The ground sure does look like a comfy place for a nap, but I spot Angel's form in the corner.

I can't quit now.

…wait.

Is my father running towards Angel?

…shit.

I sprint over to wear Angel is, desperate to stop any plans my father has. I can minutely feel the invisible slip away, like a cloak sliding off my head. I hear Clone 2 take up pursuit on my retreating figure, but my focus lies directly ahead.

I reach Angel and snap around, waiting for my father to approach.

However, he hasn't come this way at all.

My father crouches over MAN Uno and digs in his suit jacket. His hand finds purchase, and he draws the object out into view.

My heart stops.

A gun.

A sleek, black, weapon of doom for humans and mutants alike.

My father rotates toward Ari, who swipes a claw and knocks the final clone over. The clone vaporizes into the atmosphere, and Ari stares in vengeance, breathing heavily.

I sprint without thought. I whip out my wings and try to soar over there in this small room. There's no alternative.

"ARI!" I scream.

Instantaneously, Ari turns around towards my voice.

A loud _bang_ resonates through the air.

A complete silence falls over the room.

I land clumsily, my body having gone numb.

Ari stands there, his young, bright, blue eyes wide and full of shock.

Blood pours from his abdomen.

His eyes roll upward as his body collapses to the floor.

"ARI!" I scream, my mind unable to process any other thought. This paralyzing grief and fear is foreign to me – I had never realized how much Ari had come to matter to me. However, in this moment of true distress, I know that I had grown more than grateful for Ari's assistance in the past.

Though it was nowhere as severe as it would be for Angel, I am startled to know that I sort of considered Ari…a brother of my own. Almost a son I had taken under my wing (hardy-har) because he had no one else.

This fury overtakes me so suddenly, it shocks me. Blood red fills my vision, and anger courses through my veins.

Clone 2 decides at this moment to leap at me, charging forward and leaping with claws outstretched.

With no thought or feeling at all, I avoid the claws, grab the base of his neck and the side of his head, and yank it harshly.

_Snap!_

The clone vaporizes before it can hit the ground.

I charge at my father with coldness in my heart.

My father spins around upon hearing my footsteps, and since he can see me now, he aims the gun at me, smirking.

No fear enters me. I whip into the air and surge forward, weaving side-to-side to prevent his aim.

A shot fires, and my left thigh feels the impact, but I do not register any pain. My focus lies solely on my father, and I whip forward, feet outstretched.

My feet find purchase, knocking my father over rapidly. He lands on his back, stunned. The gun flies out of his hand on contact, landing a good distance away in the corner. I land and start punching him relentlessly, once in the jaw, once in the stomach – anywhere I can find purchase. His nose bleeds and his bones crack as my unforgiving fists slaughter him. He can't even react in between my quick and precise attacks.

Finally, I sink to my knees, straddling his beaten form, and my hands grab his exposed neck.

I glare in fury, and I squeeze, teasing him, making him feel pain.

My father's facial hair recedes, his snout disappears, and suddenly, I am staring at his human face. The clones around disappear as my father leaves his mutant form. And even as I hold his life in tandem, I see no fear or doubt in his eyes. I see my own murderous eyes reflected in his clear, blue eyes – the eyes the innocent Angel has.

My father smiles, wheezing.

"You think you've won, huh?" he rasps, clutching my hands and trying to pry them from his neck. "Just one more step. Just suffocate me, right?"

I just glare in hatred. I keep a tight grip on his neck, but I grab the side of his head in preparation to snap his neck.

"Oh, snap my neck, huh? Go ahead. Kill me, Fang. Kill your father."

"You're not my father!" I snarl, nothing but contempt for this man.

"Then kill me."

"_On the count of 3_," I reason with myself.

1…

That's usually all the time I allow when I say that….

But I count the final two numbers.

2….

3…..

And I haven't snapped his neck.

Frustration fills me as my father laughs, coughing as his windpipe is constricted more.

Why can't I kill this man? Why can't I kill my father, who needs and _deserves_ to die?

I will my hands to perform the simple action, but they remain motionless.

I close my eyes in self-loathing.

God damn it, I can't do it.

He's an evil bastard. He's done nothing but deceive me and make my life hell.

…but he's the only father I ever had.

I can't erase all the good memories. Of when I was young, and my mother was not a drug addict, and my father was there for me. When we were a happy family, and I admired no one more than my father.

And it's for that reason alone that I can't kill him. I can't kill this past. Not with my own hands, not by my own devices. I can't give up on the meager desire to have a father.

"I knew it," my father croons, smirking. "You won't kill me, Fang. It's because you're too wimpy to let go of your emotions. It's because you love –"

_BANG!_

My father never finishes the sentence as blood pours from his skull.

I look up, shocked, to see Ari holding the gun in his right hand, holding his stomach with the left. The barrel smokes, and a cold look fills his eyes as he stares at my dead father.

"_Ari…," _I whisper out.

The gun drops from his hand and he falls over, his face contorted with pain, and he whimpers.

I get up to help him, wincing as I finally register the pain in my thigh from the bullet, and I make it half-way over to him before I look back at my father's dead figure. Something close to remorse flares before a sort of numb incomprehension overtakes me.

I go over to Ari and scoop him up, cradling his bean-pole body in my arms, and I turn around to face the rest of the room.

Max and Iggy stare at me, a wide, sort of shocked look fills their eyes. They don't move as I approach. It's only until I hold out Ari for Iggy that any response or recognition happens.

"Take him," I mutter out numbly. "I'll get Angel."

I am beside Angel before Iggy responds.

"Are you okay, Fang?"

Am I okay?

I don't have an answer. I can't tell anything right now.

I respond with silence, and I change the subject.

"Let's get out of here," I say in a monotone, holding Angel close, glad that at least she didn't have to witness any of this.

I hear them follow behind me as I head towards the door.

"Is this Ari dead?" Iggy asks behind me as we enter the corridor.

"Not yet," I manage. "We need to hurry."

Only the sound of footsteps greet me for a few moments, then Max finally speaks.

"Who is Ari?"

I stop and turn around. I give her a blank stare.

"He's one of the best people in the world," I say, "and he's your brother."

Max's eyes are dinner plates, but I feel nothing as I turn around and continue towards the exit.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Pages**_** by Three Doors Down.**

**R&R?**


	45. Chapter 45

**Hola, chicos (and chicas)! Look at me, teaching the readers espa****ñ****ol! **

**So, I have yet another chapter of ShadowDiving for you guys. Chapter 45! As for the epilogue, I'm starting to doubt the possibility of my epic idea; I just don't think I'll have the time (or the creativity) to do it. We'll see, though.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

* * *

I… I can't believe my father is actually dead.

Bit the dust, "passed away", ceased to anatomically function…anyway it is said, the same result appears.

My father, the evil overlord of my life, can no longer harm Angel or me.

So why am I so… affected? Why does a small portion of my soul grieve? Why can't I stop thinking about it?

My footsteps are a quiet _thunk, thunk_ against the white concrete floor. My breath enters and exits my lungs with each contraction and release of my diaphragm. My heart beats in a steady _thump, thump_ in my chest.

Physically, I'm normal (excluding the various injuries).

Mentally, I've shut down.

I can't handle all the conflicting emotions and thoughts. Out of instinct, my mind has built a barrier, blocking any cognitive activity or emotional quarries. I am meandering in a numb state, with no idea what to do or where to go.

So, I keep walking forward.

_Thump, thump, thump._

Max and Iggy make significantly louder footsteps behind me. Blood from Ari's bullet wound is soaking Iggy's shirt with deep crimson; the smell of it is pungent and nauseating. Max has not said a word since I spilled the beans about Ari being her brother. She stares at his unconscious form, almost stupefied – like me. In this great confusion, we are identical.

Angel rests in my own arms, unaware that her father has died. She has no idea that Ari shot him down only minutes ago, no idea about the fights and the attacks. In her unconscious she is innocent and spared.

However, she can read minds. How long will it be before she reads what happened in one of our minds? How long before she realizes the terrible truth?

My stomach churns at the thought of Angel's agony.

I shift Angel's weight into one arm so I can use an arm to sweep back my blue hair from my forehead, since all traces of hair-styling goo has been sweated out. When my hand comes back, it's stained with blue, and I can only imagine what my forehead looks like at this point.

I can only imagine what _I_ look like in general: a busted up, ragged pizza boy with blue hair.

I shift Angel back into both my arms, subconsciously holding her closer. I'm clutching the only family I have left – genetically, anyway.

My mind's wall cracks for a moment, letting a stray thought spill into focus.

Wait - what's happened to my mother? Where _is_ she, even?

I stop in my tracks, and a few steps later, Max and Iggy halt also. My eyes stare straight ahead in thought.

We are standing on the second story, again. It's the same hallway that lead us to the M-Geek room earlier, only the lights are on, now. The rooms on the sides are still closed and dark, but I can clearly see the hallways. Small hallways branch off every so many feet, and I shiver at the thought of encountering anymore M-Geeks. However, the stairway to the first floor is ahead, so we need to pass through it.

We need to _move, _though, to get there.

I shake my head to clear thoughts of my mother away and resume motion.

I can't help but peer into the hallways as we pass. To my surprise, they are not very long. They lead to cells, all empty of any life. Some hold the corpses of experiments gone awry, but no living forms flourish in the dark, musty cells. I glance quickly into each, but I continue my linear path to the stairwell.

We are a few meters away from the stairs (a few feet before the first hallway we took that lead to the M-Geeks) when I peer into another cell.

I stop abruptly.

Max and Iggy almost run into me, and Iggy practically sighs, as if asking himself, "_What now?_"

This cell is not empty.

Two figures reside inside the cell. One is breathing raggedly, lying on the floor. Long, dirty, blonde hair is splayed on the musty concrete, and a torn-up sweatshirt covers her skinny frame. The other form is sitting up, kneeling near the first. Overgrown but shorter light brown hair is plastered to his forehead, hanging over blue eyes and cracked, wire-rim glasses. A furry moustache resides above his lip, and considerable stubble resides on the lower half of his face. His cheekbones are shallow, but he looks in better condition than the other cellmate.

I recognize their tired faces.

In fact, I'm related to one of them.

In the cell is Max's father, Jeb, and my own mother.

My mother's eyes dart a bit before focusing on my stationary form. A sort of dull spark lights up her brown eyes – _my_ brown eyes – and a pained smile appears.

"Fang," she breathes out, her tone weak but happy.

Jeb similarly has a moment with Max as her form appears in the hallway's opening, only Max is the one to speak first.

"Dad," she whispers, her eyes shining.

Jeb smiles. "Hey, pumpkin."

"Dad, you're okay!" Max exclaims, running to the cell bars.

I remain back, still in shock.

"Mom," I whisper.

Her brown eyes stare at me tiredly. Her face is thin and covered in shadows, and her nose sports a hefty bruise – it's probably broken. Her arms are sticks, and her hands are shaking on the floor. Each breath is audible and ragged.

She is so different, and yet she is still my mother.

Mom's eyes drift to Angel, who is still unconscious in my arms. "Is that my baby? My baby Angel?"

The bitter taste of resentment rises in my mouth, but I swallow this begrudging emotion. Yes, I had to raise Angel; yes, my mother shouldn't be calling Angle her "baby". Angel was more my daughter than hers. However, I know Mom had reasons for acting as she did – the drugs.

This knowledge does not make me forgive her completely. I can't wipe the seven-year slate clean. Her actions are justifiable, but not forgivable.

My body yearns to go in two opposite directions: towards Mom and down the freaking hallway _away_ from Mom. I take the middle ground – staying put.

"…Yeah, it is," I finally reply, looking at Angel's closed eyes, monitoring her slow, deep breaths, noticing the red in her blonde curls due to my blood rubbing onto her. Angel's eyes flutter open as I study her, the eyelashes fluttering a few times before her blue eyes focus on me.

"Hey, Fang," she says.

I give her a half-smile. "Hey, Ange. How ya feeling?"

Angel closes her eyes briefly. "Tired."

She turns her head and sees her new surroundings. Her eyes find Jeb and Mom, and she stares a few moments before recognition hits her.

"…Mommy?" Angel asks tentatively.

Mom's eyes tear up a bit, and she coughs harshly. "Baby…"

I set Angel on the ground softly, and Angel looks between Mom and me in indecision.

"_I don't know if I should go_," a voice sounds inside my head. Angel.

My conflicted thoughts swirl, but I gesture towards Mom and nod.

Angel slowly walks to the bars and sits down in front of Mom, studying Mom's face.

"_Or rather, her thoughts_," my conscious quips.

Suddenly, Angel starts crying.

"What did you –" I start to angrily exclaim.

Then, Angel speaks again.

"Mommy…," she moans, grabbing Mom's outstretched hand in hers. She leans into the bars and looks at Mom's confused, gaunt face. "Mommy, _no_…"

"No what?" I ask, approaching Mom and Angel. "Angel, what's wrong?"

Angel hiccups but cannot answer.

My mother coughs roughly and gazes into my eyes.

"Fang… did I just hear - *cough* - Angel… in my head?" Mom asks.

I nod solemnly.

Mom's brown eyes light with a spark of anger. "That ba-….bad man," Mom amends, glancing at Angel.

"I know," I reply quietly, feeling that chilling numbness creep up again, "but he…he…he won't be able to hurt anyone anymore."

Mom's eyes grow weary. She glances at the floor.

"Good…good riddance," she responds, knowing the meaning of my words. I glance over at Angel to see if she mentally sensed our thoughts – the truth – but she shows no indication of knowing.

I hear a scuff behind me, and I see Iggy looking at the floor, scuffing his feet at the end of the hallway, stilling holding Ari. He looks up from the ground, as if sensing my gaze, and his eyes tell a silent message.

_Shouldn't we be moving out – before we get caught? Before this kid dies?_

I turn around to face my weak mother and take a deep breath.

"We're…we're escaping, now, Mom," I say, staring into my mom's eyes. "And…we can take you. We can get you out."

I take a deep breath, and my hands start to shake with nervousness.

"Come…come with us."

My mom's eyes fill with pity. "Oh, Fang…"

Angel wails louder.

I grab Angel's shaking form and push her head into my shredded shirt, holding her close. The wetness of her tears stain my shirt quickly.

"Why are you crying baby girl?" I ask gently, concerned at this sudden emotional outburst.

I turn to my mom. "What are you thinking that is hurting her so much?" I say, venom entering my tone as my defensive parental instincts kick in.

My mom coughs, and a bit of red lands on the floor.

Blood.

Mom and I both stare at the bloody phlegm, and Mom is the first to break the silence.

"Fang…I can't go with you."

I can only stare at her for a few moments. "Of course you can," I retort, "I can help you walk out, and then we'll get you some medical help, and some food and water, and –"

"Fang," my mother interrupts.

I fall silent.

"I wouldn't make it –"

She coughs heavily, and a lot of red comes out.

"…out."

Something icy stabs my stomach. I feel anchored by a thousand pounds.

"What…," I begin, then resume again once I gain my voice again, "…what do you mean?"

My mother sighs, and she grasps her side in pain. She waits a few moments; then, she gazes at me with a somber stare.

"Fang, I'm…I'm going to die."

My eyes are locked on her. All the outside sounds and sights fade away; my focus is solely on my mother's weakened form.

"Not… not if we get you out," I say, my voice cracking and rising in pitch. "We can get you medical help, and you'll get better, and –"

"No, Fang," my mom says assertively, staring at me coldly. "I am not going to get *cough* better. I'm…I'm going to –"

Coughs rack her body, and she can't breathe in between all the fluid that's produced. Red drips from her lips in a sinister manner.

Almost twenty seconds later, she stops coughing. Her breaths come in sharp, quick inhales.

All I can see is the crimson blood on the floor, the sickly white of her face, the shaking motion of her hands.

"No – No!" I exclaim. "You can't…you can't die…you can't –"

Mom grabs my nearby hand and grips it with feeble strength, looking at me mournfully.

Something rises in my throat, and I can't get my words out. I look anywhere but my mom now, feeling my eyes sting. "No, no! You can't… you can't leave me, too!"

I take a deep breath. "You can't leave me alone. Not now, not when I understand, not when I know that Dad made you do all those things. You have to live – you have to –"

"Shh," my mom says, stroking her thumb over the top of my hand. "Baby."

Vicious coughs overtake her again for ten seconds.

"I'm…sorry," my mom manages, breathing shallowly. "I don't want to. I'm just as scared, baby."

"Don't _leave me_!" I shout, desperate. "Don't leave _Angel!"_

Mom's breath grows quicker and shallower.

"But I love you, Mom!" I scream, feeling water fall from my eyes. "I shouldn't have, but I always did. You were always my mom. I love you! You can't leave me!"

Mom's hand goes slack on mine.

"NO!" I exclaim, agonized. She can't leave me. Not now. She can't die on me –

Mom's breath is almost non-existent.

"I…," she breathes out, "…love….you…."

Her eyes fall closed.

"Mom!" I shout, gripping her limp hand. "MOM!"

Her chest doesn't rise. She doesn't respond.

Angel wails in my arms, clutching my shirt, and fall into her, sharing her agony, her grief. I still hold my mother's hand tightly, muttering incoherent thoughts about how my mother couldn't die.

I feel arms pull me from the bars. The hands are forceful, but I won't release my mother's hand.

Her dead hand.

More hands appear, and her hand is yanked out of my grasp.

My arm falls around to hold Angel tighter, my vision swimming with tears. The hands tug me away, and I faintly see Jeb on my left, pulling me along. I ponder briefly when and how he got out, but too soon my thoughts float around my mom – or lack thereof – and I lose focus on reality.

Faintly, clips of reality penetrate my psychotic grief.

Jeb leading us out a different door than we came in.

The bright sunlight, blinding my eyes.

Nudge and Gazzy, wide-eyed and horrified.

A car, foreign to me.

At some point, my tears stop. However, I remain staring into nothing, far away from the world.

Suddenly, I'm lying on a bed, and Dr. M's face swims into view.

"I'm sorry, Fang," she says, and a mask appears over my face.

Before I can comprehend what is going on, I fall unconscious.

* * *

I wake up with a start.

I gasp, sitting up rapidly, as a bedroom's interior replaces the bloodstained lab I was in, reliving my parents' deaths. I notice how stiff my body feels, and I glance down to see my body covered in bandages. My burns are tingling with heat, but it's less than before. My thigh is bound tightly with gauze, and a bullet sits on the end table near me – the one that was in my leg.

The bedroom seems unfamiliar at first, but eventually I recognize it as the guest room in Max's house.

I calm my breathing, ignoring the ache in my chest. My eyes land on a figure in the corner, and I focus on the spot.

Max.

Max realizes my gaze is upon her and stands up, approaching the bed. She is bandaged with gauze, as well, mostly over her burns. Her hair is still a shade of pink, though it has faded. Max looks fresher, and I realize that she's showered – which explains the faded pink hair. Nudge only used temporary hair dye. If Max has had enough time to shower and get bandaged, however, how long have I been out?

I open my mouth to voice the question, but Max beats me to it.

"You've been out for 12 hours. Mom gave you a strong dosage because she thought your body would run through it faster, what with the faster rate of healing and everything. Iggy's downstairs making breakfast, and Nudge and Gazzy are still asleep in my room. Angel's with Mom in the backyard, and Ari –"

She stops, stumbling upon the curious topic.

" – Ari is in my parent's room, healing. He's unconscious."

I pause, taking this all in. "Did you tell your mom? Did your dad?"

Max looks down. "Yeah. Dad told us. Ari's was sort of a test tube baby, but he's my half-brother, still."

Max glances back at me and studies my face for a few moments. "Are you okay?"

I lean my head back against the wall near the headboard. "I don't know," I answer honestly, not wanting to think about it.

Max nods as if expecting nothing more. "Do you want to get cleaned up, then?"

I nod, and I slide out of bed. As soon as my wounded leg hits the ground, I cringe and lift it back up in pain. Max comes towards me and I put an arm around her shoulder. Using her as a human crutch, I manage to hobble to the bathroom. Max sets me down on the toilet cover, and gets a washcloth out.

"Mom washed the wounds before she bandaged them, so their clean," she says, soaking the cloth with sink water. "I hate to get the bandages wet, though, so this will have to do."

She hands me the cloth, and I scrub my face.

The process continues, with me scrubbing the dirt away and Max washing it out and handing me a clean, wet cloth again.

After I finish my second arm, I pause, thinking.

"I think…can you wash my…wings?" I ask tentatively, embarrassed.

"Sure," Max replies, gesturing for me to turn around.

I do, and I extend my wings, filling up the bathroom space.

"Uh," Max starts uneasily, "you may have to…uh…take off your shirt."

I don't give a verbal response; I tuck my wings in, take off the shirt with minimum difficulty, and release my wings again, my bare back facing Max.

The cloth lands on my right wing, and I shiver involuntarily at the contact. For some reason, this is really uncomfortable. Not that it causes me physical pain or anything…just…it's awkward. My wings are a very personal thing. For Max to be touching them…it's personal.

As Max gently cleans my wing, however, I realize that I almost…enjoy her touch. It sends startling tingles through my nerves, and it's actually pleasant. I have to really trust Max to let her touch my wings…

And in the midst of this very intimate wing-bathing, I have an epiphany.

I lost my parents, yes, and it will always be a part of me.

However, I haven't lost my entire family.

There's Iggy, the concerned but goofy older brother figure.

There's Dr. M, who has become a step-in mother for me.

Ari, the adopted son who I have come to care for.

Max, my best friend, girlfriend, and supporter.

And Angel – my baby sister Angel, who will always be the world to me.

I've lost my true family, but I've gained one, too. I don't have to let the grief overcome me.

However, I can't completely move on, yet.

Max's hand has cleaned both wings, now, and is absentmindedly stroking the feathers near the base of my wings. It feels so good, but I sacrifice the touch to turn around and face Max.

"I want to have a funeral," I speak.

Max takes a moment to respond. "What?"

"I want to hold a small funeral for my mom. It can just be us and what not…but I feel like this isn't finalized. That my mom can't pass on without some peace. I need this to have some closure."

Max stares blankly – quite possibly from the large amount of words I just said.

"Sure," she replies finally, softly. "Whatever you need."

In this moment, with our bandaged bodies, our vibrantly colored hair, and our changing experiences, I feel this surge of love.

Love.

I haven't known what it was in so long.

"Thanks for saving me," I say.

"Saving you from what –" Max begins, but I interrupt her with a slow, passionate kiss. My hand creeps up to cup her face, and her hand goes to my blue-ish hair.

Ten seconds later, we part, taking a breath simultaneously. A grin forms on Max's lips, and I feel a gentle smile creep onto my face, opening up in this private moment.

"You deserve happiness, Fang," Max says, gazing into my eyes intensely.

I give a low chuckle. "I already have happiness," I say softly, staring straight at her. "It's just all about perspective."

Max grins wider, and swoops in again, stealing my lips .

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Until the End **_**by Breaking Benjamin…as well as multiple other songs (this is what I get for listening to Pandora): **_**45**_** by Shinedown, **_**Hurricane**_** by 30 Seconds to Mars, **_**Numb**_** by Linkin Park, **_**Here We Are**_** by Breaking Benjamin, **_**Awake and Alive**_** by Skillet, and **_**Believe**_** by Staind.**

**Lots to think about. Lot's to comment and review about. Still more chapters to come, though they are few.**

**R&R.**


	46. Chapter 46

**Bow down in reverence. I'm actually updating **_**the day after I posted!**_

**Ha ha – just kidding.**

**But seriously, this is a record for me. I haven't done this since the beginning!**

**Enjoy this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Maximum of the Ride. All rights belong to Patterson, James.**

* * *

The day is bright, warm, and clear – completely as un-cliché as it can get for a funeral.

I'm glad, though – I'm not having this funeral to remorse over my mom. I need this to recover, to have a final, shining memory of her.

To complete the un-cliché scene, everyone is wearing bright, light colors and jeans.

Even me – I'm wearing a light blue T-shirt.

Go ahead, gasp and point. Contrary to popular belief, I am _not_ emo. I just enjoy the color black – it conceals the wounds, helps me blend into my surroundings, _and_ it's slimming. How awesome, right?

I have to give Iggy credit for my ensemble because he lent his clothes to me (my closet consists of the one black shirt I was wearing when my house burnt down and a torn up and scorched pizza delivery suit).

Currently, Max, Iggy, Dr. M, Jeb, Angel, and I are standing in a middle of a field outside the city. Tall grass brushes against our legs in the gentle breeze. The sky is a brilliant blue, and there are practically no clouds floating above. The sunshine is warm and yellow, shining on our faces and making the brownish fields glow. Jeb has a shovel, and I hold my backpack that Nudge retrieved from her house last night. Angel holds a bouquet of flowers in her hands – daisies, which were Mom's favorite flowers years ago.

We decided to leave Nudge and Gazzy behind because they didn't know my mom ever, so this may be a weird even for them.

I open the backpack and pull out the few possessions I salvaged from the fire: a first aid kit, a photo album, and a box of family trinkets.

I put the first aid kit away and open the photo album.

The first pictures are of Mom in the hospital, holding a small bundle in her arms.

Me.

Well, baby me.

Her face is alight with happiness, and if I were to judge our life on this one picture, I'd say we were a happy family.

I study the pictures slowly, the wind blowing my thankfully-now-black-again hair across my forehead.

There's a few pictures of baby me eating, sleeping, laughing, and playing with some sort of black cat doll. Some pictures are of Mom and my father, holding each other and grinning in the backyard or in front of the house. The house looks fresh and new in these pictures; it looks nothing like it had for the last seven years of my life. Beautiful daisies and petunias flourish along the house's border, and the house is a brilliant yellow. The yard is full of green grass, and all the shingles are still on the roof.

I sit down on the ground with the album. I hear footsteps approach, and Angel peers over my shoulder.

"Is that you, Fang?" she asks.

I nod, a small smile on my face as I view these good memories – the precious times before my parents both changed for the worst.

Angel giggles, pointing to a picture on the right-hand side of the page. "You look goofy!"

I glance at the photo, and I see three-year-old me with wide eyes; an open, smiling mouth; and arms and legs spread-eagle as I leap off my bed, clad in…duck pajamas.

Oh, jeez.

Of course, Angel's exclamation draws attention, and soon everyone is peering over me, looking at the pictures.

Some of the pictures draw laughter and smiles; others cause Dr. M to sniffle from sweetness and Max to poke me and go "aww." The rest cause me to receive strange looks because they are bizarre or completely unlike me.

Like the Halloween costume pictures.

"You dressed…up…as…Spongebob?" Max questions through her cackles, while Iggy can only raise an eyebrow.

Iggy shakes his head in mock shame, stating, "That is minus five man points, bro."

I raise my own eyebrow, now. "Says the kid who dressed up as the purple Teletubby for three years in a row."

Iggy blushes. "They were awesome, okay? Don't blame me for having a childhood obsession. And the purple one was the only one left in the store!"

I smirk. "Sure Iggy…._sure_."

Eventually, the photos grow less cheery. My father's smile grows fainter; Mom's smile looks fake and strained. I stop smiling in some pictures.

Past age nine, there are no pictures of me.

After a rather abrupt stop in my photos, pictures of Angel appear – ones I took.

Baby Angel, with her small blonde curls and big, bright blue eyes, as she looks up from my bed (she didn't have a crib – Mom didn't get her one, nor could I go buy one. Angel slept next to me for the first half of her life. Eventually, Iggy's Mom helped me buy a bed for Angel under the ruse that my mom "could not afford one".).

Baby Angel, crawling along the floor, giggling.

Baby Angel, staring at me with big eyes, caught off guard.

Baby Angel, swinging on the park's swing set at age two.

Angel never looks unhappy; evidence of my cause, evidence of my success in the matter of keeping her unaware. All the pictures draw laughs, coos, and smiles. However, her pictures do not mirror all the classic childhood memories I had – there are no Christmas trees, no loving parents, no new toys. Everything about her life was hand-me-down and worn, scant and bare.

However, Angel grew up beautifully, defying the odds. She is sweet, caring, and unselfish. She is innocent and unscarred from my life (excluding these past few months). Angel manages to be the perfect little "angel", if I can be punny.

We reach the end of the photos, and I backtrack, pulling out a picture of Mom in her garden, in simple jeans and a yellow T-shirt, an unplanted pot of daisies in her hands. She is smiling and truly happy, and her eyes sparkle with youth.

It's this picture that I choose to bury; the good part of Mom, the part that should be visited and remembered.

I close the album and open up the shoebox of trinkets, gazing upon its unkown contents.

There is my old stuffed black cat in there. A couple of ticket stubs to various movies and theater performances are stapled together, probably from my parents' courting period. An old bejeweled pin sits in the corner, its orange stones sparkling in the sunlight. A strand of pearls I faintly remember Mom wearing lies in the center of the box. Along the wall, I spot a thin strip of photos taken at the mall's photo booth. My mom and I are both in the pictures, and I would guess that I am seven. Most of my childhood chubbiness has evaporated, and my hair is still fairly curly and a darker brown. Both my mother and I are making goofy faces, and a broad grin finds its way onto my face as I look at the photos.

What really catches my eye, though, is a folded piece of notebook paper with the words "To Fang" written in pencil.

The grin falls off my face as I open the paper, feeling apprehensive and confused.

My eyes scour my mother's familiar handwriting.

_September 11, 2009_

_Dear Fang, my precious son,_

_If you are reading this, I assume that something has come up where you had to grab the valuables, since you never touch this box otherwise. I know that you probably don't want to read anything I've written – I know I've made your life miserable. I know how much I've beaten you and abused you. I know how many drugs I've gotten high off of, how much alcohol I've drunk. I know how they affect me. But maybe, I tell myself, maybe the next time the drugs will work – maybe they'll erase what I've done, erase the addiction I have to this pill I take. _

_I know you think I'm lying, too – I would, too, if I were you. _

_But I need to tell you this while I can still think clearly, before the addiction kicks in and forces me think violent thoughts about you._

_I'm sorry, Fang._

_I know yet again that this isn't enough. It's nowhere near what I need to do to earn your forgiveness. But it's all I can do, right now, to offer my apology. I wish I could stop – but I can't. That drug has taken over my mind._

_I'm sorry, Fang, for what I do. For being who I am. I love you so much – and Angel too. I wish you could see – I wish I could allow you to see it. But here I am, having to admit this in a letter you probably won't ever read. I wish that every time I came home, you didn't have to greet me with anger and fists. I wish I could see Angel, who you hide away from me – and for good reason. I'm glad I haven't come to ever hate my baby Angel._

_I wish I knew what she even looked like._

_I hate myself – know this. Know that I wish I could stop. But I can't. I just can't._

_Maybe someday, I'll be able to quit. Maybe someday, you won't look at me with icy loathing and hatred. Maybe someday, you will love me. But probably not._

_I can only hope in this brief sobriety and tell you how sorry I am, Fang._

_Take care of yourself – you are such a fantastic young man, and whoever gets to have you is the luckiest person in the world._

_Love,_

_Mom_

I hold the letter with shaky hands. I reread the letter two, three, four times.

I stand up, holding the photo and the note, and nod to Jeb.

Jeb hands me the shovel, and I start to dig a hole in the soft earth, creating a pile of brown earth next to it. It's a tiny hole – what will go into it is meager. The task only takes a minute, and I put down the shovel when I'm done.

I gently place the photograph and the note side by side in the hole. I stand up, feeling the weight of the action like invisible dumbbells resting on my shoulders. Picking up the shovel, I place the loose earth back into the hole, burying the contents forever in this field. The job is over quickly, and the small patch of bare brown soil glares back at me.

I back away from the hole, and Iggy begins his statement.

"I don't remember much about Fang's momma before her turn to the dark side," Iggy says, earning a snort from me, "but what I do remember is full of good memories and good food. I'm sorry that the good part of her soul had to go."

Iggy backs up and Dr. M strides forward, clearing her throat.

"I knew Lillian from high school. We were good friends, and we shared each other's weddings, births, and child-raising. We set up play dates for Fang and Max, had girls' nights every few weeks, and talked all the time. However, eventually we both became too busy, and the friendship slipped. I'm sorry that happened to us. I now know about the evil that took her over, and I can only grieve that the drug took over one of the greatest souls I knew. I'm sorry that Fang lost his mother to this evil drug, but I'm happy that the great Lillian I always knew can be remembered right now. May her soul find the relief it never found here."

Jeb follows her up.

"I worked with Lillian for all of our careers. We both began as eager scientists, hoping to develop cures to human illnesses and conditions. I remember our initial love of exploration and discovery. I also remember the day we both received our first questionable assignment – mutating cells on a human. I remember our discussions, our reluctance, and our agreement to quit. Yet, the next day, we found ourselves still at work, working on the assignment, hoping this would be the last one of its kind. I remember when Lillian and I both received the evil medicine. I remember hearing the tragic story about our development of cancer and the relieving news that the medicine could cure us. I took the pill one day, experienced the evil side effects, and never took the pill again unless I had to deceive our supervisor – and even then I faked taking it. I figured that dying of cancer was better than becoming so violent. Lillian took her pills, experienced the side effects, and continued on. She said she didn't want abandon her husband and kid; surely, the effects would fade, and she could control her violence. I remember her plummeting condition: headaches, hangovers, and the eventual battle marks. I remember the escalating intensity of her ideas, how they progressively grew more and more twisted and unethical. I drifted away from this hurricane of disaster, thinking that I was finally seeing the true Lillian."

Jeb stops, wipes his brow, and continues.

"I'm sorry I ever believed that. The Lillian behind the drug was a fantastic, intelligent, and wonderful person. Lillian, while still herself, raised a son to be proud of. Even in her cruelty, her early training had shaped Nicholas into a hardworking, dedicated young man, who had to, unfortunately, grow up to soon. Hopefully the good Lillian will find her happiness in death."

Now, Max.

"I faintly remember Fang's mom. She was a nice person. She stood behind her son for the first part of his life. She abandoned him, though, and unfortunately, so did I. When I returned, I found him a strong person who had a devotion and determination that most people can never possess. The good and the bad have both shaped Fang into a great person, and I csn see the secret adoration Fang fostered for his mother – for the good part of her. I'm glad she got to know her son loved her in the end, and I wish the goodness he loved could have lived on."

My stomach twists as I watch Angel carefully place the daisies next to Mom's "grave". She backs away, and speaks in a quiet voice with maturity far beyond her years.

"I never really got to know you, Mommy. I know Fang wanted to keep me safe and stuff, but I wish I could have known you more. Whenever I did see you, you were always nice to me. And you were really nice in that cell. And I could tell you really loved me, because your thoughts were full of it when I read your mind."

Dr. M and Jeb wear startled expressions, but Angel pays no mind and continues.

"And I know you really loved Fang, too. You felt bad about being so mean to Fang. But, Mommy, I loved you too. And so did Fang, even if it took you dying for him to know it."

She sniffs, and I approach her, holding her close in a backwards embrace.

"I want to say bye-bye, Mommy. Can you tell the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause up there in Heaven to help Fang out? That'd be nice."

I will not tear up. I will not tear up.

"Bye, Mommy. We both love you."

….Damn it.

Angel backs away, and it is finally my turn.

"Um…hi," I begin oh-so eloquently. "Everyone else has pretty much summed up what I should say, but I'll say it anyway. I did love you, in a twisted sort of way. I loved the mom I remembered from my childhood, the mom that always cared for me and protected me."

I stop, take a deep breath, and continue.

"I had to assume the role of protector too soon, though. I held you responsible for every ache and pain in my life. I hated you with a passion. I dreaded coming home, feared for Angel's safety every day. I imagined you dying in multiple, gruesome ways….I just never imagined it really happening."

I hear Dr. M start crying behind me.

"I wish I had told you I loved you sooner. I wish you had recovered from your drugs and returned to your earlier self sooner. I wish those drugs hadn't killed you with withdrawal. But like you said, it's not enough to wish. So what happened… happened. You didn't get to leave with us. But now you know the secret of death – you know what happens after we die. I find comfort in the fact that you now know the answer. And I'm glad you know I loved you, after all. I'll tell you that I don't forgive you completely…but I understand. I understand the why. So I don't blame you. I don't forgive you…but I love you. And I hope that you stay with me, somehow. May you rest in peace."

I raise my eyes from the ground, feeling the sun and the breeze on my face. I close my eyes and just _feel_ the moment, letting it sink in fully. Knowing that everyone here knows about my wings now, I release them, letting the sun warm the black feathers. The breeze caresses my wings, telling them to fly. However, I'm not going to fly away from this absolution, from this closure. I let myself go for a few moments, and then I pull in my wings and open my eyes. I turn around and face my new family, ready to move on.

"You ready, Angel?" I ask, knowing how important this funeral is to Angel, as well.

She nods bravely, grabbing my hand.

I give her a small smile, and we stride towards the car parked along the road, with Max, Iggy, Jeb, and Dr. M following.

As we walk, I swear the sun feels a little warmer – the breeze a little gentler.

But maybe that's just me.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**The Story of Your Life**_** by To Have Heroes. **

**I know! A non-emo, heavy rock song! What is wrong with me?**

**Actually, in real life, most of my music is very light and similar to this song. It's just for this story, I really need the darker, meaningful music to fully get into the story.**

**As for this song, I felt it was a nice song to get into the closure of the funeral and the light, happy thoughts of the characters.**

**Thank you, readers, for all the feedback! I didn't get to respond to all the reviews for ShadowDiving this time (Avian-American Gurl, Jealous Minds Think Alike, aries4me, and rhianna259), but I love every comment – and please don't murder me. I rather like living, thanks. :P**

**Be cool like the above people, and review!**

**R&R?**


	47. Chapter 47

**So…yeah. I went MIA for a while. Teachers don't seem to empathize with me about my lack of time to write this story and decide to give me **_**more**_** homework to do. And college applications…yeah. What a blast, right? Note sarcasm.**

**Anyway, I'm not sure what I'm going to write…I failed to really plan this out. So we'll see where this goes.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

* * *

After everything I've been through…after all the foes I've defeated, the crises I've overcome, and the Spaghetti O's and rice I've eaten….

I have to repeat my junior year of high school.

Because I _missed_ _too many days_ of an educational experience to move to the next (and final) level.

Go ahead, laugh. Max does. Iggy about died of laughter when I informed him.

Angel would have to, but she was able to test into her regular grade again. Actually, she could be in 3rd grade instead of 2nd, but we'll keep her on the same level as her peers. No need to isolate her further than she already feels.

The mind-reading issue has been discussed promptly. She is not to read minds unless vital to her survival, and under no circumstances is she to tell _anyone_ about her ability.

Yeah, we'll see how long _that_ lasts. The girl is eight, after all.

Angel turned eight a last week. I can't believe a whole year has eclipsed. It has been very eventful, but a whole _year?_ I feel like our time has been stolen from us.

Angel won't say anything in public, sure, but I'm positive that my thoughts will be the latest gossip in the Martinez house.

Yep, the Martinez's. Angel and I are now the happy new residents in their household. For everyone that is wondering "_How does that work? Do they have to adopt you?"_, here's how it all functions. If I am eighteen, I'm considered a legal adult - according to our wonderful democratic republic – and I can legally care and 'have guardianship of' Angel. I'm not sure how residency works, but I believe that our situation is okay.

And today, I turn eighteen.

Eighteen years ago, my mother gave birth to a little, un-winged version of me. My family was happy and functional. We were a stereotypical, cliché _familia_.

Eighteen years after that moment, and both my parents are dead, I have wings and invisibility, and Angel can read minds. I have more scars than I can count and have been scarred internally even more. My mother caved into a drug, and my father was an evil, manipulating mutant. My house remains as an ashen plot in the city's ghettos, and I have no relatives or extended family to turn to. I have no job, no money, and means of income. I have to repeat a year of education and still raise and protect Angel.

I never expected to be so happy after so much.

I appreciate and trust the Martinezs so much. Dr. M is becoming a sort of step-mother (not evil, you Cinderella fans) to me. I don't loathe Jeb so much. Gazzy is beyond entertaining and lovable – until he imitates my voice and tries to get me in trouble.

Eh. Nine-year-old humor. What can you say?

Of course, having Max around is not miserable at all. I mean, we're watched like hawks (ha! So many puns) in the household, but we really don't care. We don't have a lusting/super romantic relationship. At the core, we are best friends; we are there for each other for the good and the bad. Mostly, we talk and goof around a lot. Occasionally, there is a holding of hands, an arm slung across the shoulders, or a chaste kiss, but honestly, our bond is a deeper, more understanding one.

Angel is adjusting so well. Since she never really had a mother, Dr. M has become one to her. They cuddle on the couch, watching TV. Dr. M gives her baths and braids her hair. She tucks Angel in at night.

Sometimes, I feel a wave of jealously wash over me. For years, Angel needed _me._ _I_ was the one she turned to. _I_ was the one who took care of her, held her when she cried, tucked her in at night and looked for monsters under the bed. Dr. M is taking my place.

Then, I remind myself that Angel is not the little girl she used to be. She is only eight, but she is mature beyond her years. And now, she has the opportunity to have a grounded, nice family. I can't hold her back from that. And I'm not being replaced; Angel is merely sharing her love with more deserving people.

Gazzy has turned into her permanent play-mate, which suits him just fine. He's still a little kid, as well; he enjoys being one and playing with kids close to his age.

Things seem so perfect, right now. But I can't forget what I paid to achieve this.

The sounds of a pencil tapping snap me out of my reminiscence. My ears tune back to Mr. Turner's lecture on _Moby Dick_, which I couldn't care less about. This English class – my repeat from last year – is my last hour for my school day. I eye the clock, noticing how the minute hand seems to have hovered just to the left of the twelve for the past five minutes. I glare disdainfully at the clock, willing it to move the extra centimeter and release me from this mind-numbing institution.

"The ship is a microcosm for –"

The bell rings and interrupts Mr. Turner mid-sentence, causing him to huff in annoyance.

"No homework, then. We'll finish the discussion tomorrow," Mr. Turner mutters, shuffling the papers on his desk into a messy pile.

I quickly grab my books and dart out of the classroom, ready to go to my locker and head home.

Home.

The word makes me smile a little. I now consider the Martinez's my home. I now _have_ a home.

I go to my locker on the south side of the school and squeeze in between a rather large jock and a group of gossiping girls to reach the dial. I turn the knob to the familiar numbers and hastily open my locker. I efficiently shove my books into my backpack and pull it out. I am about to close the locker and walk away when I spot a piece of paper taped to the inside wall.

I pry the note off the tan metal and read the familiar handwriting.

* * *

_Fang,_

_Life is constantly an adventure. Grab your supplies and head to the Mulberry Madness restaurant on Henry Avenue to begin your trip._

* * *

There is no signature, but I don't need one to know this is Max's doing. I smirk at the note, close my locker, and head to Mulberry Madness, which is a fifteen minute walk from the school.

Mulberry Madness is more of a café than a restaurant, but they do serve full course dinners and lunches, so it classifies as the latter. However, the place is known more for its afternoon latte drinkers and its clusters of teenage girls drinking flavored teas and fluffy pastries. I barely visit there, so I am quite curious as to why I must head there.

Fifteen minutes later, I step through the glass door of the restaurant, hearing a bell tinkle and announce my arrival. I scan the tables for Max's face, but I see no traces of her. I wait at a table, rationalizing that maybe Max is running late or in the bathroom. I wait there five, ten, fifteen minutes before a lady finally approaches me and asks me what I'm doing and if I want to order anything.

"No," I sheepishly reply, "a note told me to come here, and I thought I'd meet someone here, but so far, nothing has happened."

The lady smiles and laughs. "You must be who I give this to," she reasons.

"Give what?" I question.

The lady pulls out her notebook and tears out a page, handing it to me. I grab it and spot Max's handwriting.

I waste no time before I start reading.

* * *

_What are you doing here? Appearances are everything, nowadays. Go next door to Jimmy's and fix that freakish haircut Nudge gave you_.

* * *

I can't help the snort that comes out. My "freakish" haircut?

I thank the lady for her help and stroll to next door.

As soon as I enter, an eccentric man sweeps me away and sits me in a chair.

"I've been waiting for you, _muchacho_," he says in a Mexican accent, pulling out scissors. "I have orders from a _muchacha muy hermosa_ to fix your hair. And indeed, it is a mess, isn't it?"

He examines my skull for a few moments, stroking his chin thoughfully and fingering his slim moustache.

I am startled when he snaps his fingers, his face lighting up in inspiration. "Diego has got it! I know the answer!" he exclaims, causing several heads to stare in confusion. Before I can breathe, nonetheless ask _what_ his idea is, he yanks me by my arm (with more force than I expect from a slim man like him) and forces me into yet another chair. My head is forced into a basin, and warm water soon coats my hair.

"What are you doing?" I exclaim, not knowing the reason for this since I've never had a professional haircut since I was five.

"Washing your hair, _muchacho_, and silk-ifying the strands into perfection. You will have to smack the ladies' hands away from your luxurious head of hair once I'm done!"

He massages cold goo into my hair (shampoo, I assume), muttering about how my hair has "so much potential" that has been "wasted".

I don't understand hair-people.

However, I will admit that it feels pretty freaking amazing to have a head massage, as creepy as that sounds.

Soon, my head is yanked up and hastily dried with a towel. I am led back to my chair and forced to not face the mirror.

The cold metal of the scissors brushes my neck, and I barely control my urge to flinch. I hear the _snips_ of the scissor's blades cutting my hair. Every so often, I have to tilt my head, hold a comb, hold the scissors. The process doesn't take long; the water is still dripping down the back of my neck and into the collar of my shirt by the time Diego finishes.

Diego plugs something in and returns with some sort of device. The end is an empty hole, covered by metal bars. This hole is part of a barrel, which slopes into a handle. A flip switch on the handle says _high, off, low_, and a blue button is above this switch that reads _cool._

"What is that?" I ask Diego, eying the device warily.

"A hairdryer, you fool. Where has you lived, _muchacho_, under a rock?" Diego answers, looking almost disappointed in my lack of hair-styling knowledge.

He flips the switch to _high_ and warm air blasts in my face.

In a few minutes, my head is completely dry.

I am spun around to look in the mirror.

My eyes widen in shock as Diego smiles in pride.

My hair isn't short. It's about…normal length, I'd say. It doesn't really hang, but it's thick and somewhat shaggy. I have even bangs over my forehead again, and my naturally loosely curly hair is back. It's my old hair from when I was little.

I never thought I'd still like it now, but I do.

I thank Diego and ask how much I owe him, but he says someone already paid for me and instead hands me another note.

* * *

_Now that you're looking classy, you better show it off. Go to Trembleton Park and model by the swings._

* * *

It takes me another fifteen minutes to reach the park and three more to find the swings. Placed on the swing seat is another note.

* * *

_Though some can fly –_

* * *

I snort.

* * *

_- the rest of us people cannot. However, the swings offer us a birds-eye view and make us feel like we're flying. Maybe you should try it out._

* * *

Swing?

Okay.

I sit on the old, faded red seat, hearing the chains creak as it holds my weight. I push against the ground to swing backwards. I glide forward as momentum and gravity take over, and I pump my legs to gain more height.

Eventually, I am almost horizontal to the ground, feeling the wind blow on my face and the breeze mess up my hair. There is a silence in the park as the sun starts to set and people exit the park. I feel an absolute calm, and I mentally thank Max for making me do this indirectly.

On the way down from a particularly high swing, I see a piece of paper lodged in the branches of the tree nearby. Laughing to myself, I stop swinging and climb the short trunk of the tree to retrieve the note from the branches. I leap downwards, bending my knees to absorb the impact. I open the white paper and read.

* * *

_Now that you've seen the world, it's time to remember where your roots are. Return to the Martinez residence._

* * *

Shaking my head at Max, even though she is miles away, I stroll back home.

The sun is fairly low on the horizon by the time I return to the Martinez house. I use the key I now possess to open the door and enter the doorway.

The room is completely dark, and I wonder where everyone is; the whole family's cars are in the driveway. I reach to the side wall and flip on a light switch.

"SURPRISE!" a chorus of people scream, and I jump back, startled.

"Jeez," I mutter as I try to slow down my heart to a normal pace. "That scared me."

I look up and see the faces of Max, Gazzy, Iggy, Nudge, Dr. M, Jeb, Ari, and Angel smiling back at me, and I manage to give a small smile in response.

"Happy Birthday, Fang!" Angel exclaims, running up and hugging my legs. "Dr. M and Jeb got you the coolest gift, I saw it in their heads –"

"Angel!" Dr. M shouts, laughing. "Don't give it away!"

"What did I say about reading people's minds?" I say, withholding a chuckle.

"Not to. But their thoughts were _screaming_ at me, and they weren't doing anything to quiet them or hide them –"

"Okay!" I interrupt, sweeping Angel into my arms and placing her on my shoulders. "I get it."

Angel laughs, tugging at my hair. "Fang, your hair is really soft. And Max likes it a lot."

"Angel," Max warns, a bit of pink on her cheeks.

"Feel his hair, Max," Angel says, not bothered by her blunt honesty. "It's so soft."

Slowly, Max approaches and runs her fingers through it. I watch her eyes the whole time, feeling a deep tingle at the contact with hands. She takes her time, and the moment is almost a bit awkwardly intimate before she takes it out.

"It _is_ really soft," Max says in a surprised tone, smirking.

"Really?" Iggy questions. Before I can react, Iggy is cuddling my head and rubbing his hands through my hair.

"I could just snuggle with you all day, Fangy. You're so deliciously smooth and luscious, like a pillow of goodness. Coat you in bacon, and I'd marry you right now."

I shove Iggy off forcefully, but I'm smiling because I know he's just kidding.

"Angel already hinted at it, so we might as well show you now," Jeb tells me, motioning me with his hand. "Come on; follow me to the garage."

The party converges in the concrete garage that usually houses two cars: Jeb's truck and Dr. M's Ford Escape.

However, Dr. M's car isn't there. Instead, a 1973 black Dodge Charger sits there in all its rustic, worn-down glory.

Dr. M holds out a pair of car keys to me. "Happy Birthday, Fang. I figured that is was about time you got a car."

I'm speechless. More so than normal.

"And don't worry over the price; I got it from a buddy of mine who needed to clear out his garage. I took his old car off his hands for a few hundred. It isn't new and perfectly functioning, but it is a beauty, isn't it?" Jeb rants, gaging my reaction.

"…holy crap," I manage to spit out. "This is awesome. Oh my God."

"_Oh oh oh oh oh oh Oh My God,"_ Iggy sings, proceeding to sing the entire Usher song off key.

Everyone starts laughing hysterically.

Once I regain some breath, I turn to Dr. M and Jeb. "Thank you so much."

Dr. M smiles. "It's no problem, Fang. Happy Brithday."

The evening continues with pizza and ice cream cake from Dairy Queen (hint: lots of chocolately goodness). Angel gives me a drawling of me with wings; I immediately tape it on my wall as the start of a new wall of sketches and words. Iggy and Gazzy give me a book entitled _Emotions: It's OK to Show Them_. Nudge hands me a black leather jacket she found at a thrift shop that looks pretty BA and a _Guitar 101_ book in memory of my first make-over from her. Ari gives me a CD Gazzy helped him mix. Max's present is a white fang on a simple black cord.

"I thought it was fitting; that way, people might get why your name is Fang," she says, smirking as I studied the gleaming white tooth. Rolling my eyes, I put it on anyway.

Dr. M gives me a final gift: a sleek black laptop, to which my eyes almost bug out.

"Our whole family has one. You're part of our family now, as well, so we figured you needed one also."

I gather up my manly courage and hug her in front of everyone, causing Dr. M to smile widely while Iggy _awwwww-ed_ at us.

* * *

Eventually, the evening ended, and Iggy and Nudge went home. Dr. M, Jeb, and Gazzy went to bed, and I returned to my room with all my goodies, placing them on my new desk. Angel and Ari also went to sleep, but they sleep with Gazzy now, in bunk beds. I don't know where Max went. I lie down on my bed, staring at the ceiling and just thinking.

What will I do with my life after high school? Normally, I'd be filling out college applications right now or finding a permanent source of income through a job. What do I want to do? I never considered it. I was always too preoccupied with Angel and I's safety. Now that I'm (hopefully) safe, I have to ponder my options; I can't stay here forever.

It is hard to imagine myself in any one job. Right away I can cross off Zumba instructor and Dance major. The best dance move I have is the Belligerent Pigeon, and that's not considered a cool dance move.

Before I can think too hardly on this, my door is opened and Max's face appears in the doorframe.

"Can I come in?" she asks, studying my face. "Or would you like to continue glaring at the ceiling?"

"I grant you access," I reply, my deep thinking behind me.

She strides over to the bed and flops down on it. We lie side by side for a few moments in silence before Max speaks.

"Your hair really _is_ soft," she admits.

I laugh quietly, taking her hand in mine. "Is that why you're here? For some more hair time?"

"No," she says, rolling her eyes. "I can't just say "hi" every now and then, and visit my best friend?"

"You see me every day," I remind her. "So this meeting is useless if that is the case."

Max smacks my arm jokingly. "Whatever. Let me rephrase: can't I just say "hi" and visit my _boyfriend_?"

I smirk. "Well, in that case, by all means, sure!" I say sarcastically.

Max's grin is stunning. "Good."

She gets up on one elbow and looks at my face. "Have a good birthday?"

"The best," I admit honestly. "I can't thank you guys enough."

"No need to thank us, Fang," Max says. "We want to give you this stuff because we care about you."

I am about to protest but she interrupts.

"But…but. If you want to thank me, there are a few ways to do it."

"This sounds bad," I huff, smirking.

"Well, the first one is to be my slave for a week," Max lists, looking very serious.

"Next," I murmur, smirking still as I trace her arm with my fingers.

"Well, you could get me a penguin named Flippy. I've always wanted a penguin," Max continues.

" 's too warm for penguins, and too expensive," I reply, running my fingers up her shoulder and to her jaw slowly.

Max's eyes are focused on me, distracted from her list. "And thirdly is…"

I smile as my hand traces the side of her face.

"…Well, you can always just, you know, uh…," Max stumbles out.

I trace along her lips.

We meet in the middle for a kiss, topping off a fantastic birthday as our lips move in synch. It's slow, sweet, and Max's hands are leaving _fire_ on my arms –

"Oh! I remember. Three is a piggy back chariot around town," Max says, pulling back from me with excited eyes.

I only stare at her.

Then, we both burst into laughter.

I can't help but think how I once thought Max was the bane of my existence. How we both let this friendship slip for so long. How Max is one book you can't judge by its cover.

Really, everyone I've come to love has not had a great first impression. And everyone I trusted right away turned evil on me.

Ari, the wonderful little boy who almost died, was initially an enemy. Now, he is like an adopted son. Dr. M has welcomed him with open arms, easily calling him a son of hers and spending as much time getting to know him.

My mother, who I hated for so long, ended up being so important to me.

Jeb, who was distant and viciously violent after my house burned down (due to having to take the evil pills), has taken me into his house and provided for me.

I can't say that my troubles are over; I have an entire future to battle. However, most of the shadows of my life has been dived into, explored, and conquered. A sunlight glows over my once dark life. I'm a freak, but that's okay. I'm loved and I love in return without fault.

And the greatest accomplishment: Angel is safe. Angel is okay. For the most part, I was able to protect her from the shadows that haunted my life. She is growing up into a fantastic girl, and whoever gets to have her when she is all grown up is the luckiest person alive.

In this moment, laughing with my best friend after a great day in a warm house, I feel like this is a new beginning. I can never forget my past – it has forever shaped me and taught me so many lessons – but I can look upon the future with hopeful eyes and start again a better life.

* * *

Yo.

You've followed my story since its tragic beginnings. I don't know how much it mattered to you, but I needed to tell someone – anyone – about my struggles. To tell the world that there is light amongst the shadows and love amongst the beaten and broken. Whatever you are going through, you will conquer it. Greater times await you, and me.

So maybe it didn't matter.

Maybe it did.

I don't know.

My name is Fang.

And that was my story.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Carry**_** by Tori Amos.**

**And that is the last chapter of ShadowDiving! I'm thinking an epilogue will follow it (so this isn't the last chapter of the fanfic – just the plot line). **

**Now, readers, put on your reviewing pants and write me some feedback!**

**I want to know what you thought, felt, ate for dinner – anything!**

**You guys are awesome. Without you, there would be no ShadowDiving; it would have no purpose. Thank you for all the comments, suggestions, favorites, and love. I couldn't ask for a better group of readers. I appreciate everything so much. I'm glad I could write this story for you.**

**I'll see you in the Epilogue.**

**R&R?**


	48. Epilogue

**The epilogue! The final (for real) chapter of the story! *sniffles***

**In the end author's note, I have some info to share. So read!**

**I've had a blast writing this story. Of course, I loved hearing you reviewer's commentary and opinions along the way! Seriously, this journey could not have been possible without your words of encouragement and inspiration. I have had a truly fantastic fan-base, and for that, I thank you from the deepest part of my heart. Even if you didn't review, every story subscription, story alert, or favorite (even the author's! Especially the authors. :D) meant the world to me. To want to follow me and consider my story a top-ranking entity… thank you so much you guys!**

**Anyway.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. If I did, I'd be receiving a lot of hate mail over the FANG and ANGEL books.**

* * *

_Eight years later_

I stand in the corridor, mentally preparing myself for the task ahead of me.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I try to remove the physical results of my nervousness – the sweaty palms, the tense shoulders, the biting of my lip. My instinct is to bite my palm – a nervous habit I've possessed since I was little – but this task is not as nerve-racking as the ones I faced when I was seventeen.

"_I'm twenty-six now,"_ I remind myself. "_Surely the nerves should have died down by now."_

However, I find myself equally as anxious each time I am about to step forward into the gym, auditorium – it changes every time. No audience is ever the same, no place of equal caliber. Stage fright is normal, also. I just need to conquer it, to grow over it.

Breathe in, breathe out.

A voice rings out over the loud speaker – my introduction, the head of this local abuse shelter.

"Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, may I present Nicholas "Fang" Johnson, our guest speaker!"

Johnson is the last name I adopted after my eighteenth birthday; I wished to separate from my abusive past and start a new present for myself – why not a new last name?

Shaking out my tense shoulders, I take a step toward the doors separating me from the gymnasium, but then stop.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Finding some unknown courage, I stride to the red metal doors, shove them open, and enter the bright, spacious room.

Applause greets me upon the crowd spotting my form, thanking me for coming. Even though the action is only a knee-jerk reaction, a custom enforced over and over by society, it strengthens my resolve just slightly.

I approach the center of the gym, where a microphone and a middle-aged woman await me. I shake her hand, reading her nametag displaying _Mrs. McGluffen_ in uniform black font. I give a mandatory smile, very stiff and grimacing, but there nonetheless. She departs to the far wall of the gymnasium to watch from afar, and I am left to turn around and face the crowd.

Hundreds of blank faces stare back at me.

I search the eyes, seeing the boredom, the disinterest, even loathing - surely I don't know pain and suffering, they say. I could not have experienced what they have. Why am I preaching to them when it obviously won't affect any of their lives?

Fear creeps into my body. What am I doing? I should not be here; I should leave.

Then, my eyes settle on a familiar face. Deep brown eyes sear into my own, smiling, encouraging.

"_This is important, Fang,"_ they say. "_I believe in you; you can do this. You _need_ to do this_."

Breathe in, breathe out.

I laugh to myself silently.

I can do this.

If I could take care of my little sister Angel since the age of ten, survive eight years of abuse, take down an evil institution via its medusa head – my father – and stand here still, I can talk to a few hundred people.

I look at the faces again, renewed courage in my body, assessing the crowd.

"My name is Fang," I begin slowly, measuring each word. "And I'm sure none of you care about that."

I receive a few chuckles from the crowd as I break the ice.

"I know none of you think I can understand you or your experiences….and you are right. I can't."

Confusion sweeps the crowd; this blunt honesty is startling. Now how can they complain about my ignorance and overly positive outlook? I've crushed their hopes and expectations, leaving them a blank slate, waiting to receive and record my words.

"I can only attest for my own experiences, which were gruesome at best. I have honestly no idea how I managed seven years on my own, in retrospect. However, every person's experiences vary; no two are the same. I can only relate what I've learned and hope somehow, someway, you can find a way to apply it to your life."

Silence meets my ears. All eyes are focused on my lanky form.

Breathe in, breathe out.

"My abuse began at the age of nine– much later than many of you in the audience's torture began. My mother started taking a drug given to her by my father, the CEO of a wicked organization. She thought the drug would cure her cancer – a cancer she didn't actually possess, but was told she did. The medicine only enhanced exponentially violent tendencies. To counteract the torturous memories of her actions, my mother became a heavy alcoholic drinker, a meth and other powder user, and abused any substance she could grasp, as long as it helped her forget. The drug she took also kept her system in check, so other drugs couldn't kill her through overdosing. Eventually, my mom accepted the side effects, allowing them to elevate into habitual actions. For me, this was the initial spark of my abuse. But it almost cost the life of someone who hadn't even been born yet – my baby sister – as my mother was pregnant at the time this all began."

The audience slightly gasps.

"I won't go into details about my abuse, because everyone knows how that is: the physical, the mental…the sexual. What really defined my abuse was my mother choosing to experiment on me with avian genes."

The intense stares of the audience burn, but I continue.

"Due to my mother, I am no longer one hundred percent human, genetically. I out-casted myself from my peers and allowed my one true friendship to slip away. However, I kept up my grades, tried to hide the pain and scars, and continued living the best I could because I could not slip through the cracks. I had to live – for Angel, my little sister. I had to raise her, feed her, clothe her, educate her, **protect **her."

I clear my throat, and then continue.

"Finding something to live for allowed me to survive and overcome my traumas. If you are here, obviously you have found help. But the key to surpassing the injustice done to you is to find the good in life, the reason to live. It doesn't have to be a person; it can be a concept, a belief, an object, an animal. Anything works. But the depression will overshadow your future if you don't possess a light to cling to. I shadow dived for many years. The most notable year was when I was seventeen, though – the year the abuse ended but my struggles multiplied times a million by the time it was said and done. It is in this year I wish to begin…"

I embark on the story of my life.

* * *

After a considerable length of time, I reach the end of my story. Searching the faces of the audience, I cannot tell if they are moved or shocked beyond emotional recognition. I take another breath, readying myself to deliver my final clause.

"The lessons I gleaned from my experiences have shaped my future, even if the path to receiving them was covered in shadows. Love is vastly important – essential, even. The love I found in my friends and eventually my mother have helped me recover and grow. Most importantly, my love of Angel helped me stay above the ocean's waves and prevented me from drowning under its immense waves. My initial impressions of people most always proved to be wrong, so do not judge based on a first appearance or comment. Forgive, but don't forget…wait, let me rephrase that. You do not have to grant absolute forgiveness to those who hurt you, but realize they had reasons and their own experiences that lead them to that terrible point of abusing. Let the past be a part of you in that it teaches you what to do and what _not_ to do, an immortal teacher of life, but do not become consumed by the past ; the present is still to be lived, as well as the future. Accept yourself, flawed and all. There is a distant light for every shadow that falls on the earth; you just have to dive and dig to find it. And with that, I thank you for listening to my tale. I have no idea if I have impacted you or if my experiences have mattered whatsoever, but know that just by sharing my experiences, I have been helped. May you find the happiness you all deserve. Thank you."

A brief moment of silence follows my final words. Then, a wave of applause sounds out, storming through the silence, reverberating around the acoustic gymnasium, and swelling in my eardrums. People are standing, tears falling from their faces. A respected gleam flashes in many eyes. Some are still impassive, but I cannot judge them for this. I give a slight bow, shake Mrs. McGluffen's hand once more, and stroll back to the side of the gym.

As the crowd of abused victims leave, some come up to thank me or share their reactions to my speech. I thank everyone of them, treasuring their feedback. As the crowd thins, the familiar face I know and love appears, running toward me with arms outstretched.

I take Max into my arms and spin her around, allowing the natural smile to grace my face. Max extends from my arms slightly to look me in the eyes, grinning from ear to ear, before she comes closer again to boldly kiss me. My hands find themselves on the small of her back, and her hands run through my hair, sending waves of pleasure into my brain. Too soon, we separate, since we are in public still.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. "I was not expecting you to be here."

Max places her hand on her hip in mock annoyance. "What? So your wife can't come to watch her own husband give a moving speech? Society these days…"

I grin, grabbing her ring-clad hand. "It's not unappreciated – I'm just surprised, that's all."

Max grins again, but then it morphs into a mocking smirk. "I had no idea you could talk so much without exploding. You've been holding out on me, Fang. I thought your word-limit was one hundred, not a hundred thousand!"

I roll my eyes but laugh, knowing Max is only teasing.

Max pokes my side to capture my attention again. "I have a few more surprises, as well."

My eyebrows raise. "Oh, really?"

Max laughs. "Yep. Aren't I tricky?"

"So what are…"

I trail off as the gym door opens again, revealing a few more familiar faces.

"Fang!" Ari and Angel exclaim in almost unison, trotting forward to embrace me as well.

My eyes are literally bugging out of my head.

Ari and Angel were there?

Ari, now twenty-one and attending a local university to study engineering, slaps my back. "Good show, man. I'm glad to know I made the cut."

I can't help but laugh at that.

Then, I turn to Angel.

Angel, now sixteen and in high school, is just as sweet and innocent as she was when she was seven. The soft blonde curls, the big blue eyes, and the heart-warming smile. I will always see her as my baby, even though she is all grown up, now. "Ange…"

Angel clears her throat. "I hardly remembered any of this experience. What you went through…and you had to take care of me…I wish I could have helped more –"

I interrupt Angel my pulling her into my arms and squeezing her senseless. "You didn't impair me, Ange. You were the reason I made it."

Angel sniffs, laughing. "I know, I know…that's what you keep saying. But still….I don't know. I'm going to go buy you some animal crackers or something, so I feel like I'm paying you back. Thank God you have an addiction to a cheap food source, Fang, or I don't know what I'd do."

We all laugh.

Ari jingles his keys to his 1994 Mustang. "Well, I have a class in a couple hours. I'm going to take Angel back to the house, then head on up to the university. See ya guys!"

Angel and Ari wave as they walk away, laughing at something.

I turn back to Max.

"I guess it is time we leave, too. Where's your car?" I ask.

Max points to Ari and Angel's retreating figures. "Them. I was sort of – okay, _definitely_ – hoping you'd give me a ride home."

I smirk. "What if I say no?"

Max gets a serious look on her face. "Well, I'd probably freak out, beat you senseless, steal your car keys from your unconscious form, and leave without you."

I stare at her blankly. "I guess I would like to avoid that. Come on."

We walk out to my old, black Charger – the one I received on my eighteenth birthday from Dr. M and Jeb. I unlock the doors, and we both climb inside. After buckling in, I start the ignition and pull out of my spot.

"So…," I begin oh-so charismatically. "It's a school day. Did you have to call a sub?"

"Yeah, but I figured it was worth it," Max retorts, staring out the windshield.

Max is a first-grade teacher at an elementary school half-an-hour away from our house – our new house, away from the Martinez's. It's small and cheap, since both of us make meager salaries – me, a touring spokesperson on abuse and recovery and Max as an elementary teacher – but we don't need luxury. I grew up in what can be considered a ghetto, so even this small, cramped house was nicer than what I was used to.

A moment of silence follows. I turn away from the school and start heading down Baltimore Avenue.

"So," Max states, "I am thinking about writing a book. Somewhat about our lives – our being you, me, Angel, Ari, Iggy, Nudge, Gaz, Mom, and Dad. I'm going to have to make some of us evil, and some of us good, of course, but still. I'd say…six, on the good side. Six avian-American kids on a mission to save the world while escaping the clutches of…well, a disguised version of Mayhem. What do you think?"

I briefly glance at her before turning away. "Wow, way to spring _that_ on me. I was not expecting _that_ whatsoever."

Max's face becomes a bit crestfallen, though only infinitesimally. "So, is it a dumb idea?" she asks, an almost undetectable trace of doubt and self-consciousness hidden in her voice that I've become a master at detecting after so many years together.

"No," I say, looking deep in her eyes since we are stopped at a stoplight. "Your dreams are never a dumb idea."

Max gives a small smile, then grabs my free hand and squeezes it.

"I already have the title in my head, though I don't know why I like it so much," Max rambles again. "_The Angel Experiment_."

I can't help the smile that comes to my face. It's so perfect I can't believe it.

"I can't wait to read it."

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to **_**Ocean Wide **_**by The Afters.**

**And that was the epilogue!**

**So, as you obviously now know, I couldn't think of a way to incorporate every reviewer's name into my epilogue plot plan. So, there will be another non-story-related chapter following this one that will list everyone who reviewed in a sort of cookie contest. If you are unfamiliar with this term, basically, it is a list of all who reviewed in a point system ranking. For me, I'm going to grant ONE POINT per review. The list will be a tally of who reviewed the most.**

**FIRST PLACE: a dozen virtual Dr. M chocolate chip cookies, a promise for a sneak peek of the first chapter of any story/one-shot I choose to write later on, AND their username mentioned in a one-shot (I hope to write a one-shot sometime in the future; it just seems like something I should experience on FanFiction).**

**SECOND PLACE: a dozen virtual Dr. M chocolate chip cookies, and a sneak peek of the first chapter of any story/one-shot I choose to writer later on.**

**THIRD PLACE: a dozen virtual Dr. M chocolate chip cookies.**

**You know what you should do now?**

**REVIEW!**

**I want to hear your feedback on the story as a whole. Questions? Good? Bad? Funny? Too depressing? Should I go into psychiatric care because my mind is obviously very demented? TELL ME!**

**So, R&R?**


	49. Cookie Contest Results

**Hola, hola! I gave everyone a week (or rather, I gave myself a week) to submit their last reviews or what-not, but now the gate is closing.**

**Beep…beep….click!**

**And the cookie contest is over!**

**I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed this story at all, on any chapter or any subject. In doing this cookie contest, I re-read a lot of reviews, and for the record, you guys are just awesome. I have been so spoiled on this story, receiving all kinds of support and praise. I couldn't have asked for any kinder people to read my story.**

**So, to kick things off, I'm going to announce the winners of the cookie contest! Here's a reminder of the prizes:**

* * *

**FIRST PLACE: a dozen virtual Dr. M chocolate chip cookies, a promise for a sneak peek of the first chapter of any story/one-shot I choose to write later on, AND their username mentioned in a one-shot (I hope to write a one-shot sometime in the future; it just seems like something I should experience on FanFiction).**

**SECOND PLACE: a dozen virtual Dr. M chocolate chip cookies, and a sneak peek of the first chapter of any story/one-shot I choose to writer later on.**

**THIRD PLACE: a dozen virtual Dr. M chocolate chip cookies.**

* * *

**And the winners ARE –**

***drumroll***

…**..**

***drum keeps rolling***

…**..**

***thump***

***drum hit the bottom of the hill it was rolling down and stops*  
**

* * *

**FIRST PLACE goes to **_Color The Sky_ **for the grand total of 25 whopping reviews! That's just over half the chapters – thank you so much!  
**

* * *

**SECOND PLACE is a tie that I won't break and so I'll just reward the both of you equally. These winners are **_Icy. and Fire _**and**_ Jessica Jay Jackson_ **with a tied score of 17 reviews. That's quite a lot of love – thanks for your support!  
**

* * *

**THIRD PLACE is also a tie (and with close numbers to second place, as well). These winners are **_rhianna259 _**and**_ JealousMindsThinkAlike _**with a tied score of 14 reviews. Well done, and I appreciate the support!  
**

* * *

**Of course, there are tons of people to thank and consider. The honorable mentioned are:**

**(AKA the rest of you lovely people, in no particular order)**

Maximum Ride is awesome 98 (8)

The Storytelling machine (5)

Alexis Taylor (3)

fangfan 1 (1)

dntblink (1)

Casper (1)

Fangnatic14 (1)

Cayology (2)

Beth (2)

Caramel Curls (1)

thefloxroxmysox (8)

Call Me Bitter (2)

sapphire17choco (1)

apbarium (7)

Claire Ride (1)

Unbroken Silences (2)

Sunshine Roses (6)

Mojothemajickmonkey (4)

desperatelyobvious (6)

Angel (1)

MyDarkHeart (1)

peacegal45 (1)

Violetfangs (5)

emochildlova(1)

Waymer Bailslisk (1)

dirgni (1)

ashpi (9)

Geranium Rose (1)

SomethingAboutDarkAngels (4)

Scarlet daydreamer(4)

Don't Shoot the Puppy (1)

Fnick16 (1)

Fanglover101 (1)

faxlicious (3)

Kaitlin (3)

m.m (1)

lizzie (1)

FearIsButFearItself (2)

fangluv (10)

Links Only Grl (1)

luvin'-music (1)

Lissa (1)

iluvfax28 (1)

Person (1)

Wheelchairmaniac99 (3)

soccergal12 (1)

Alactricity (10)

Unicorn of Awesomeness (1)

aries4me (5)

The Codebreaker (1)

nathan-p (1)

easilyamused7 (9)

dramaqueen101 (3)

FoReVeR-TwIrLeR (1)

Trinity The Crazy (3)

gaiva artemis (1)

Phsyco Eskimo (1)

EpitomeOfCool (3)

SilverFangXVincent (3)

MegamanSora (6)

Madam Roses (1)

Axe07 (7)

Rave (1)

Maximum Ride 4ever (2)

bitter sweet (1)

SpiritOfAHorse (1)

Mariabelle (1)

lotsoffunforeveryone (1)

Meghan23 (1)

Madeline Cullen (2)

pupster (1)

Wingz-and-a-Fez (1)

Maggie ride (5)

FlyOn39 (3)

It's Fnicking Awesomeness (2)

St. Trinians Kelly Jones Rocks (3)

Avian-AmericanGurl (6)

faxtothemax51799 (2)

FangGirlForever (1)

inkoftwilight (2)

demigodflock (1)

Kali Be Gold (2)

WithBlackAngelWings (1)

Midnite17XP (1)

lilmissmaggie (1)

AngelRulestheWorldWeLiveIn (1)

**Thanks again for all this love, and I hope to see you guys in the future!**

**Rock on.**

**Sincerely,**

**~Dancing On My Toes~**

**P.S.: I really want to have 50 chapters, and this is Chapter 49. :/ Suggestions? **


	50. Beneath It All Announcement

**Hey, readers!**

**So, as I did for "I Don't Do Formal", I'm announcing a new story (well, it's already 4 chapters in...but whatever. It's here).**

**The story:**

**"Beneath It All"**

**It's a Fang POV story about his character. A tragedy occurs, and the story is basically how Fang learns to cope and grows as a person. It's not so much an action fic as a personality analysis and a story of real life. So, I hope you enjoy it.**

**Rock on.**

**Sincerely,**

**~Dancing On My Toes~**


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